


In the Springtime

by mrsronweasley



Series: Paris!Verse [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsronweasley/pseuds/mrsronweasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank's Big Gay Paris Vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Springtime

**Author's Note:**

> I started this almost immediately after finishing the first fic, and have been obsessing over it ever since. I am so happy to get this monkey off my back, I can't even tell you. And I have...many people to thank. Let's see!
> 
> My beloved, brooklinegirl, for putting up with my constant whining about this thing for MONTHS, for beta-ing, and basically being _amazing_ throughout and kicking my ass when I needed it. Also for marrying and not divorcing me in the process. ♥♥♥
> 
> Huge, ENDLESS thanks to Desfinado for being the best beta in the WORLD (no srsly), even if it meant I had to go back and try not to tear my hair out with re-working shit. She is made of utter awesome.
> 
> All the French provided to me by Etben, who is literally at French camp, and I love her geeky face for it.
> 
> And, finally, huge, ENORMOUS thanks to ciel_vert for, well, _everything_. For being there from the very beginning, for encouraging and cheerleading and reading, for MAKING ME A MIX, WHAT, for talking me down off the ledge more times than I can count, and for loving this verse almost as much as I do. ILU, bb. Thank you. This fic has always been for you. ♥♥♥
> 
> (All remaining mistakes are mine. I have never been to Paris, but I hear that it's nice. Any inaccuracies can be blamed on my lack of knowledge and Monsieur Google.)
> 
>  **Bonus Content:** [_La Ville Lumiere_](http://mrsronweasley.livejournal.com/990649.html?style=mine), mix by ciel_vert.

>   
> _"They say that there is a city somewhere in the world where they honor lovers," said Andrei. "If they're kissing in the middle of the street, the cars go around them."_  
>  "Paris?"  
> "Yes, probably."
> 
> _\- F. Vigdorova_

  


*

Frank gets the window seat, which is nice. Booking international flights three weeks in advance is pretty fucking risky, but here he is, resting his head against the window, all the time in the world to contemplate just how crazy he really is.

Which is pretty epic, actually. But the plane is meeting the sunrise head on, and the clouds look like something out of a picture book from when he was a kid. He can almost hear his mom's voice saying, "And that's where the Gods live, Frankie." It looks like it, too, majestic and otherworldly, and Frank's stomach hates flying, but his head doesn't. It's pretty awesome.

Of course now, the awesomeness fades because he has to take a piss, all that recycled, dry air forcing him to drink a gallon of water every hour. The guy sitting next to him isn't budging, not even when Frank makes some apologetic noises and starts to crawl out. Maybe the aisle would have been smarter.

The dude still doesn't budge, so Frank doesn't really feel bad when his foot accidentally slips and mashes on the dude's toes. Frank just shrugs, all, _Sorry, you're the douche who won't move or let me through,_ but he does feel a little bad when his hand flails out and lands hard on the lady-in-the-aisle-seat's knee.

"Shit, sorry, sorry –"

She ignores him, pretending to be asleep, so he climbs out and goes straight for the bathroom. Fucking narrow fit, and while it's a lot cleaner than, say, a bus bathroom would be, it's still a public piss-room. He pees for a million years, then washes his hands for longer. He catches his own reflection in the mirror, between the "no smoking" and "please wash your hands!" signs.

He looks exactly like you'd expect a crazy motherfucker who's flying across the ocean to meet a dude he's only spent about four days with in total to look. His hair is kind of flat on one side and his eyes are a little puffy from not being able to sleep. It looks like his face's been put on a little wrong. He can't stop the grin from spreading, though, because – Gerard. What the hell. Frank's going to fucking _France_ , to meet Mikey's fucking _brother_. They're fucking idiots.

He cracks up when he hears that in Mikey's voice, combs through his hair with his fingers, attempting to make it a little more presentable, then gives up and slides the door open. He comes face to face with the douche from the next seat over and gives him a wide grin and himself a quick squeeze.

"Sorry, man," he beams and walks past the scandalized look. He's not really one for jerking off in public, but fucking with assholes is kind of his specialty.

He's still grinning when he folds in on himself, squeezing past the lady he'd accidentally groped on his way out, and sinks back down into his seat. He leans back, tugging the blue scratchy blanket across his lap, and hopes he can fall asleep for the last leg. The little display in front of him tells him they'll be arriving at Charles de Gaulle in under two hours.

Frank's belly does a weird flip, and he ignores it in favor of pretending to be tired. Maybe he'll even catch a couple of z's before they land.

*

He's not the last one to have gotten off the plane, but it definitely feels like it. By the time he's made it through customs and to baggage claim, he's been in France for an hour. He doesn't want to admit to himself that he's pretty fucking nervous. Maybe not so much about seeing Gerard as about getting _to_ Gerard, because he'd made some noise about not being able to meet Frank at the airport, as much as he'd love to, so Frank is supposed to get himself a cab and not get himself lost in the process, and meet Gerard at the hotel.

The piece of paper with Gerard's cell number, as well as his hotel address, is in Frank's back pocket, and the back-up is in his phone. He'd had to fight with his provider to get himself international access, but he can't exactly stay out of contact with Skeleton. God only knows what Ray'll do to his company with nearly a week all to himself.

Frank may not speak much French, but he knows the international sign for "taxi cab" pretty well. He's still inside the gated hallways, but he can already see the throngs of people waiting to greet the tired masses, and part of him wishes he could be poured into a cab and taken home, but whatever, it's fine. He'll sleep at the hotel, with a bonus Gerard, possibly wrapped around him. Possibly naked. In fact, Frank is pretty sure he'll be insisting on that portion of the morning.

He's still half-dreaming about naked Gerard cuddles as he walks through the sliding doors, and then the real – dressed, messy-haired – Gerard is the first one behind the barrier. He's wearing a shit-eating grin and holding up a "MR. FRANK IERO, SKELETON RECORDS, PLEASE COME HERE" sign with some tiny sketches in every corner. Frank's heart flips over and he almost trips.

It's possible that in the two weeks Gerard's been back in France, Frank has forgotten exactly what he looked like. Well, not forgotten, maybe, but the image faded a bit, like an old photograph. Now, he stands in front of Frank, beaming his mile-wide smile, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, eyes red-rimmed but bright and just as surprising as the first time Frank saw them, and it all comes tumbling back. Gerard is all but glowing.

There's a barrier between them, and a shit ton of French citizens all around, but Frank can't help leaning up against the metal and crumpling Gerard's sign as he kisses him, any more than he can help returning his smile. Gerard moans against him in happy surprise, or so Frank hopes. Frank's arm is at an awkward angle where he's holding onto his rolling suitcase, but Gerard's mouth is warm and his kisses send zings down Frank's spine. When he finally pulls away, they're both panting.

"Hi," Frank says, deliberately not watching the girl crushed up against Gerard by the crowd at the barrier. He can just make out her huge round eyes on them.

"Hi," Gerard smiles and tugs on Frank's shoulders. "You should, like, come around."

Frank pretends to consider it. "I don't know. This has a certain kink factor to it. Prison sex, or something."

Frank smiles wider as Gerard giggles. "Prison sex? Maybe you should have warned me about the kinky shit before you got on the plane."

Frank shrugs, still grinning. "This way's more fun. But all right, we can save the kinky shit for later. I did leave my handcuffs in my other bag. The stewardesses are gonna have a field day."

"Flight attendants," Gerard corrects him without missing a beat, and Frank keeps the straight face long enough to say, "Even better. Pay money for that shit."

He finally forces himself away from Gerard so he can follow the stream of people around the gate, and Gerard meets him halfway. There's no barrier now, nothing between them, not even air. Frank gets lost in Gerard's arms for a while, doesn't even worry about the suitcase fallen at his feet. Gerard tastes predictably like coffee and cigarettes, and that particular taste, his own taste, the taste that Frank tried to recall for two weeks and couldn't and thought he'd made it up.

He hadn't, and now he's getting his two weeks' worth, tongues sliding against each other, hips fitted just so, shit, if they don't pull away right now, Frank's going to start dry-humping Gerard in front of the entire airport.

"Fuck," he breathes out when they pull apart. He licks his lips and buries his nose in the crook of Gerard's neck. Gerard's fingers skid down his spine, then dip lower to Frank's ass. They squirm against each other for a breathless moment.

"Frankie, this is -"

"I know."

"Right?"

"Yeah."

They pant into each other's mouths a little longer, then break apart. Frank looks at Gerard and he has no idea how to even explain the fact that he's in fucking France, of all places, and it feels like exactly where he should be. His feet have never felt comfortable anywhere outside of Jersey, he's homebound all the way. But right now, he doesn't even care.

Gerard grins at him, takes Frank's face between his hands, kisses him soft and familiar, like they've been doing this for years or something ridiculous like that, and guides him outside, into the morning sun. His hand is a warm pressure on Frank's back until they both slide into the cab.

*

Frank can't deny the scenery. So far, France is delivering.

They're mostly quiet in the car, Frank's exhaustion finally caught up with him, and he's been slumped against Gerard's shoulder for the last twenty minutes. He watches the roads go by, same highways as everywhere else, but different, anyway. Different cars, different plates, different signs.

Parisian morning skitters around them bit by bit, an ornate façade here, a splashing fountain there, until they're in the middle of honking cars and bellowing masses, all of it exotic to Frank's eyes, and beautiful.

"Cool," he says quietly, and feels Gerard's smile against his hair.

They don't fight over the cab fare only because Frank's already gotten a ton of Euro tucked away in his wallet, ready to be used on shit like dinners and coffee and anything else he feels like getting Gerard. He isn't here to be a fucking sponge.

The hotel has a slightly worn feel around the edges, but Frank likes the winding staircase off to the side, and the inside is not modern, but comfortable. Gerard leads him through the lobby where horsehair couches line the waiting area before ringing up the elevator.

"This was the only smoking hotel I could find," he says between floors. Frank fucking loves him at that moment, but doesn't say it, just smiles real big and gives him a thumbs-up.

Then he crowds Gerard's space as they walk up to the room, half because he's pretty close to passing out right there on the floor and needs to be held up, half just because it feels nice. Gerard throws him a vague smile as he keys in, and then they're finally stumbling through the door.

Frank is on the bed in a flash. He can sort of hear his suitcase thumping to the ground, then the rustle of fabric as Gerard bends down to grab it, but it's all white noise and pleasant weight of fatigue, and Frank's one nod to civility is to toe his shoes off before he's breathing in the flowery smell of the coverlet, and then he's dead to the world.

*

He wakes up in increments. First, the world whooshes in on him and stills, and he's aware of no longer fighting zombies in his grandma's backyard in the rain. Then, he realizes that he's basically naked, and his skin feels nice where he's burrowed under the covers and against the soft sheets. He moves his arm to feel his hips – how sweet; Gerard left his underwear on. Frank grins and cracks one eye open. The curtains are tugged closed, but the sun is obvious and bright, coming in through the slit in between. The air feels fresh, such a difference from the plane or even the airport. There's a breeze, too, and Frank relishes it on his face, then stretches his limbs back into life one by one.

Gerard is, in fact, spooned up behind him, naked and warm, kind of sweaty against Frank's skin. Awake, too, and it's possible he's been awake for a while, because he buries his nose in Frank's neck as soon as Frank moves his hips back a little, and kisses him light and soft, humming.

"Morning," Frank croaks around his smile and tries to turn around, bring them face to face. But Gerard just squeezes his middle and doesn't say anything as he pushes his thigh between Frank's. Before he knows it, Frank's on his stomach, and Gerard's mouth is hot against his shoulder, and his dick is hard against Frank's thighs. "Mmm, okay," Frank smiles and feels Gerard's answering breathless laugh against his skin.

"Hey, Frankie," Gerard whispers, his kiss wet and hot on Frank's shoulder. "Sleep well?"

Frank squirms against the sheets and the nickname, seeks more friction. He feels lazy and good and he's fucking hard as a rock, combination of morning wood and Gerard touching his everything. "Yeah," he answers, and adds, filters gone, "You should fuck me." He feels Gerard's fingers twitch around his hips, then slide down bit by bit, taking his briefs with them.

"Yeah?" Gerard's voice is barely there, kind of strained.

"Fuck yeah," Frank answers and pushes back without subtlety.

Gerard fucks him slow at first, shallow thrusts, light and teasing, but when Frank grabs one of Gerard's hands and shoves his fingers into his mouth just to have something to suck on as he moans, Gerard doesn't hold back anymore. They fuck hard and dirty, and the breeze isn't enough to give Frank the air he needs. He sucks in huge, gulping breaths, and doesn't even touch his dick before he's shuddering around Gerard and coming all over the sheets.

Gerard pins him down and drives in fast and hot and Frank feels the best kind of wrung out and used. Gerard knocks the breath out of them both when he comes, muffling a broken shout against Frank's neck. Fuck, it was worth crossing the ocean for this. Frank smiles and holds Gerard's hand in place as his heart beat slows back to normal and the sweat between them cools.

*

Frank is just this side of hungry; not yet willing to do anything about it that would involve him getting out of bed or putting on pants, but he wouldn't say no if somebody brought him breakfast in bed. Gerard isn't doing that, but he has given him a cigarette out of his own precious stash, so Frank is quite all right going slightly hungry for the time being.

His head is propped up on Gerard's shoulder enough that he can see out the half-opened curtains. He mostly sees Parisian roofs, but they're picturesque and different enough to hold his attention. A fluttery bird has landed on an antenna nearby, and Frank watches her scattered progress from roof to roof until she's out of view again.

Gerard hums against his hair, and Frank tilts his head in question.

"Like something out of Poe," Gerard notes. Frank cracks up and accidentally elbows Gerard in the ribs when he turns enough to laugh at him.

"You're a weird dude, you know that? I was just thinking ‘cool-looking bird.'"

Gerard bristles, pretending to be hurt. "Metaphors are an artist's bread and butter."

As if on cue, Frank's stomach grumbles. "What about the rest of us poor huddled masses?" he asks. "Is it coffee and croissants time yet?"

Gerard blinks like he hasn't quite caught up yet, then his face clears and he takes a drag before putting his cigarette out in the hotel-sponsored ashtray. "Might be. Although it's probably more like sandwich or salad time."

Frank looks over at the clock on the night stand. It's telling him he's in a different country. "Okay, help me out. How long have I been asleep?"

Gerard follows Frank's gaze and laughs. "About four hours. That's one p.m. to you."

Frank shrugs. "Only twelve hours on the clocks back home. More importantly, did you say salad?"

Gerard did, but he doesn't seem to care about Frank's hunger issues, and he has yet to find out just how grumpy Frank can get on an empty stomach. But it's hard to get upset when he's got Gerard pinning him to the bed with his entire body and kissing him like that, tongue and lips and breath sliding against him. At this rate, they'll never make it out of the bed, much less to the gallery opening. Frank is okay with that.

Gerard finally relents after a little while, but not before he's got Frank half-hard and aching, not even an hour after they fucked. His bones feel the buzzing anticipation, everything is tightening up. Frank licks his lips and looks at Gerard's stupidly beautiful face, barely an inch from his own. He thinks maybe his eyes are crossing.

"So, what, you trying to get me hungry for dinner?"

Gerard lifts his eyebrows and bites his lip in a smile. "No, we're going out to get lunch, remember? You wanted green stuff."

Frank squirms against him, tries to get more friction. "It could wait," he says, but Gerard kisses him quick and light and rolls off. Frank is left immediately cold and with his boner showing. "That's not very nice," he informs a grinning Gerard.

"Up, up, up," Gerard says, and actually shoves at Frank's shoulder until Frank's almost falling off the bed, then slaps him on the ass. Frank yelps and throws him his dirtiest look over his shoulder.

"So, it's like that, then?"

Gerard shrugs expansively, eyes huge and innocent, lips twitching. "I have no idea what you mean, you were the one who wanted lunch!"

Frank dodges neatly before Gerard has the chance to literally kick him out of bed, then hogs the shower for half an hour. It takes him a little while to work out all the French quirks, but the hot water steaming up the room feels incredible. So does the quick jack-off session, because Gerard is a bastard and Frank can't actually go out like this.

It isn't until he's out of the bathroom and drying his hair that he sees Gerard all dressed and ready to go. "Dude."

"What?" Gerard freezes with his cigarette halfway to his mouth.

Frank wrinkles his nose and makes a big production out of sniffing the air. "There was fucking. It's a universally accepted rule that those who fuck must shower."

Gerard slips the smoke into his mouth and grins really big. "Welcome to Europe, my friend. These are my people."

*

The café Gerard brings him to is just around the corner. It's half hole-in-the-wall, half spilled out onto the crowded street, wooden chairs wrapping the wooden tables like invisible dinner company. It looks rowdy and ridiculous and ridiculously not like Jersey, even though cafés should be cafés everywhere.

Frank tries not to feel too useless or pathetic as Gerard orders for them both, and succeeds largely due to forgetting to feel either when he hears Gerard speaking French. So, he's never really liked French, but coming from Gerard's mouth it's close to pornographic.

"Does that sound good?" Gerard asks, and Frank realizes that he has no idea what it is Gerard just asked him.

"I – don't know, was the question in English?" he tries.

Gerard's lips quirk up and he leans in a little closer, mindless of the staring barista or the healthy lunch crowd. "I asked you if you wanted coffee with your salad," he murmurs and Frank has to seriously gather up all of his brain cells to make the individual words make sense because Gerard's got a pretty gorgeous mouth.

Finally, he nods and shrugs, "Coffee is always good." He pretends to study the menu on the wall while Gerard rattles off the rest of the order, and Frank snaps to long enough to wrestle his wallet out of his jeans and shove some weirdly-sized bills at the girl behind the counter. Gerard looks at him all confused, like Frank couldn't have possibly come up with Euro all on his own, then shakes his head.

"You're my guest. I'm paying."

Frank shoots the girl at the counter a stern look and extends another – five? He thinks it might be a five – towards her. He catches Gerard's eye on the upswing. "I'm on vacation. You're _supposed_ to spend your hard-earned cash when you're on vacation."

The girl doesn't care where the money comes from, and soon Frank's got loose change in his pockets and Gerard's reluctant hand on the small of his back. They sit outside with their food and smoke to their hearts' content. This is something Frank can get behind.

At this point, he's ravenous, so once he tucks in, he doesn't stop until he's had every last bit of arugula and dried cranberry his salad had to offer. When he finally looks up at Gerard, Gerard is just staring at him, mouth quirked around his cigarette.

"What?" Frank asks and sucks in the last bit of walnut. "Am I grossing you out?"

Gerard laughs and shakes his head. "You're kind of ridiculously adorable when you eat," he says, and Frank grins in response, leaning back in his chair. At some point, Gerard has taken out a sketchpad, and already scratched some sort of shadow play with his pencil.

"Oh yeah? That is actually a new one. No one's ever said that to me before." Frank cranes his neck to see what Gerard is drawing, but he can't tell what it is yet.

Gerard hums, still looking amused, and takes a drag of his cigarette with his free hand. His fingers don't curl around the cigarette, and it looks vaguely pretentious and definitely odd, but Gerard makes it work. Frank wants another smoke right now, Gerard makes it look so good. After he's produced it from his pocket and lit it, he takes a drag himself.

"You look like you're thinking a lot there," he notes, watching Gerard's eyelashes flicker in the sun. There are animated voices all around them, but the unfamiliar words just wash over him and don't catch. Gerard is the most interesting thing there, anyway.

"I guess," Gerard agrees and doesn't continue. Frank takes a sip of his coffee and tries not to sputter at how fucking strong it is, holy shit. Devil's brew.

"You gonna let me in on it?" he asks after his tongue has been stripped of any taste buds.

Gerard's face does this thing where it looks like a light cloud has passed over him, but only a wisp, it clears the next moment. A breeze ruffles the hair on his forehead and Frank's fingers itch to ruffle it, too. "I was just wondering what kind of compliments you might have received, if not that one."

"Seriously?"

Gerard shrugs, shifty-eyed. "Just curious, I guess. You don't have to, I mean. Just…interested, I guess."

Frank bites his lip. "Are you fishing for info?"

"What? No!" Gerard shoots back immediately, pencil flying over the paper without him even looking, which basically means Frank got it in one.

"You totally are, you want to know where I've been! Who's been complimenting me and whatnot," Frank elaborates and watches Gerard go from indignant to scowly to resigned.

"Maybe," he finally admits, slumping down, and Frank can't help laughing. How he can find a dude to be so fascinating and be able to read him like an open fucking book at the same time is pretty astounding. "Stop laughing at me, a guy can be curious. We barely know each other."

The words hang between them like the flutter of stalled wings. It's true, neither one of them can deny it. If Frank thinks about it too much, he gets a little tight in the chest, like the moment before freefall, so he doesn't think about it at all. He figures that the most important things come from the gut, anyway. He pushes the words back, can almost hear the wings retreat. "So, ask me," he says with a grin, hoping it'll make the moment pass.

Gerard seems to consider him for a second, the pencil stilling in his hand – and that's weird, how serious Gerard can look while watching Frank like that. It makes Frank want to suck in his gut or sit up straighter or turn to the left, show Gerard his better side. Mostly it makes him hot under the collar.

Then Gerard lowers his gaze and his shoulders slump a little while he stubs his smoke out in the ashtray. "Okay," he says. His eyelashes are extended by the mid-day sun, soft shadows on his cheeks, and Frank unclenches his body a little and waits. "Who was your last relationship?"

Frank chews on the inside of his cheek a little. "His name was John." He did tell Gerard to ask, but now he's been asked, he has no idea how much Gerard wants to know. He starts out easy. "His best compliment to me was ‘you suck like a hoover, baby.'"

Gerard's eyes grow wide. "Seriously?"

Frank tries not to crack up as he mock pouts. "What, you don't agree?"

"No, I mean – sure, but – oh." Gerard pauses and nods. "You're fucking with me."

"Only a little," Frank agrees and tilts his head to the side. "No, he did used to say that to me once, but there were better compliments." He can't remember too many at the moment, but he knows they're in his memory somewhere, buried under things like bitter resentment at being stomped on and manic glee at seeing him stomped on right back.

"I should hope so," Gerard replies fervently. Frank thinks it's completely artless, and stupidly sweet for it. He suddenly remembers that John really loved his eggplant parm.

"So, what about you and your skeletons?" he asks, because it seems only fair.

Gerard, though, doesn't appear to agree. He hems and haws and does that "weeeell," thing which is annoying with most people, and only marginally obnoxious now. Frank kicks him under the table. "I showed you mine."

"Ugh, fine." Gerard drops the pencil altogether and fumbles for his pack. He takes so long to go through the motions of just getting the cigarette out that Frank plucks it from his fingers and lights it for him himself.

"There," he says once he's transferred it over from his mouth to Gerard's. "Now, talk. I want details," he warns.

Gerard rolls his eyes but finally starts to spill. "The _last_ relationship was Paul, in Grenoble."

Frank counts up the time Gerard's been in France and tries not to lie to himself. "Yeah? Paul's French, I'm assuming."

Gerard nods, his gaze somewhere past Frank's shoulder. "Yeah. He's a model, we met at a party."

Huh. "Huh."

Gerard ashes and gives another distracted nod. Frank tries not to kick him again.

"And?"

"And – not much. It was, you know, torrid and crazy and it didn't work out," Gerard says and now Frank really, really wishes he hadn't asked, but he had, so.

"Torrid and crazy?"

Gerard laughs at the question and finally looks at Frank with smiling eyes. "It was exactly what I needed to get over my last _real_ relationship, and it worked."

"You're like a mystery wrapped up in exes. What's up with that? Don't leave me hanging," Frank wheedles, because he apparently likes pain and uncertainty. What the hell, does Gerard fly from guy to guy without a break? Frank needed at least six months before even the name "John" alone didn't make him flinch, and that was no easy task, in Jersey. Of course, he didn't exactly spend all of it with just his hand for company.

"Ugh, this conversation sucks," Gerard grumbles again and bites on his nails. Frank would find it gross except that he totally does it, too, and Gerard seems irresistible even with skanky hair and bitten-down nails. At least to Frank. He's so fucked. "It's not like I'm a serial dater or anything, things just _happen_ ," Gerard says and looks at Frank kind of accusatory. "Like you don't have crazy and torrid stories to tell."

Frank does and he doesn't, but Gerard is right – the conversation is quickly turning crappy. He tries to shake it off and attempts to smile when he says, "Okay, new topic, then. Best sex ever, go."

He admits that maybe mid-day outside in Paris is not the best place for this, but Gerard's huge eyes and slack mouth are still hilarious. "That's not fair!"

"So, not me," Frank concedes and ashes over a miniature Louvre. "That's fine. Give me time."

Gerard laughs like he hadn't expected to. "I'm just not telling. It _could_ be you. That would be unfair to all the other guys."

Frank makes an exaggerated show of craning his neck and looking across the crowd. "Are they here? Would we be insulting them?"

Gerard plays along and scans the crowd over Frank's shoulder, then turns bodily around to look behind him. The sun catches the sharp shadow of his jaw over his Adam's apple and Frank quickly reaches for his coffee just to have something to do. Once Gerard has slumped back into his chair and pretended to wipe his forehead in relief, he says, "You can never be too careful."

"Is that because you've slept with half of Paris?" Frank asks, hiding his grin behind his cup.

"Well, naturally. Parisian boys are very sensitive, you know," Gerard explains with a slight lisp.

Frank laughs and tilts his face up to the sunshine, basking. When he looks back down, he watches Gerard's pencil moving until he can't take it anymore, and asks, "So, what have you got there?"

Gerard flips the pad over to him, and Frank sees the outline of the city behind him, the cloudless sky, the river.

*

"Hey, Mom." The line crackles a bit.

"Frankie! You landed? Everything good?"

Frank smiles down at his toes and kicks a cigarette butt out of the way. "Landed, safe, all good," he recites. "How's Peppers?"

"Fine as can be, why wouldn't she be?" Frank can hear Peppers yelping in the background. He's wondering which of Mom's brood has her cornered now. Mom clears her throat, then asks, "And how is Gerard?"

Frank grins and rolls his eyes all at once, then pokes Gerard in the side. "He's good, he got me at the airport."

He can practically feel her whirring approval. "Of course he did, good for him." There's a pause in which Frank is not entirely sure which direction to take this now, and then Mom interrupts his thoughts with a delicate cough. "Well, you go have fun and enjoy and take pictures for me, okay?"

Frank thinks he's maybe blushing to the roots. "Will do!"

"Bye, honey, and call me again, okay?"

"Bye, Mom, love you."

Gerard bumps Frank's shoulder as his mom's voice says, "Love you, too, honey," and he flips his phone shut.

*

"So, where are we?" he asks, jogging up to where Gerard's stopped at an intersection, looking every bit the shitty tour guide he'd promised he'd be. Frank doesn't mind, but he's curious – new country, different language, might as well use his resources. Gerard looks less distracted when he turns to Frank, like he's maybe zoning in on an answer.

"We're in Montparnasse right now," he says. Frank makes a "go on" gesture, because so far, that means nothing. "It's, you know," Gerard flaps a hand back and forth, "one of the Parisian neighborhoods? I really love it," he adds in a smaller voice.

"Oh, yeah?" Frank looks around – it looks like what he imagined Paris to look like, if he'd ever really imagined it. Older than New York, and prettier. "So, what's different about it from all the other ones?"

They fall into step once the light changes, Gerard slouching next to Frank in his black t-shirt, jacket and jeans, pale and dreamy-looking. He looks super young, all of a sudden, and Frank thinks he can picture him slouching his way to school, art portfolio in one hand, cigarette in the other.

"At some point it became this, like, artist ghetto, I guess," Gerard starts after clearing his throat. "All these amazing artists everyone knows today got started here, you know? They fucking, like, thrived in poverty, because it was cheap to live here, and they had studios and just – made all this incredible art, you know?"

Frank can get behind that. "Yeah? Like, who? Anyone I've heard of?"

Gerard throws him a look that could almost be considered dirty, or maybe just unsubtle. "Picasso, for one."

"Obviously," Frank says. "Anyone else?"

"Modigliani," Gerard recites a little distrustfully, like a kid with a phrase book. Frank whistles, and Gerard throws him a look that's totally different and tilts his head. "You know his stuff?"

"Hey, not a total slouch, here," Frank says, skating kind of close to offended, but too lazy to really get there. "That ex, John? He had his entire house, like, decked out in Modigliani reproductions. It kind freaked me out at first, all those dark-eyed sprawling naked women, you know?" There was one across from Frank's side of the bed, and she'd watch him fall asleep four nights out of seven.

Gerard has now stopped walking and is just staring at Frank, eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah?"

Frank clears his throat and looks up the street at all the people passing them and shrugs. "Yeah, I don't know, I kind of got used to them. I'd, like, make up stories for them in my head, about why they looked so sad, and why they were lying on white sheets framed in red, that kind of stuff." Frank actually missed them after he and John broke up. He shrugs and looks back at Gerard now. "Is that dumb?"

Gerard doesn't answer, but he's suddenly close and his hands – Frank blinks and Gerard's cupped Frank's face and closed his eyes. The next moment, they're kissing, except – it's a kiss and more, or less, Frank can't actually tell, but something about it is different.

Whatever it is, it makes Frank's knees feel like a slight kick might knock them out from under him. He clutches at Gerard's hands around his face, then slides his fingers down and just touches Gerard's wrists, feels the pulse there, hangs on. The underside of Gerard's tongue is slippery and soft and pliable and he stays there, stays as long as Gerard lets him.

They break apart and when he cracks his eyes open, Frank can't see much besides the blinding sun. Gerard's face comes into focus with black eyelashes and a red spot on his cheek that Frank has seen there before. They're both smiling, and on an impulse he grabs onto the stretched out collar of Gerard's t-shirt and hauls him back in.

He wasn't done with the kissing part yet.

*

"Why aren't you taking me to the Eiffel Tower?" Frank demands after an hour of walking around the artist ghetto, which is clearly, he might add, seeing much better days now. He wishes he'd maybe seen it back when there were starving artists milling out on the streets, making their art, or at least that's what he's picturing from Gerard's tales.

Gerard groans. "Really? The Eiffel Tower? Can't I take you to the Arc de Triomphe and call it a day?"

Frank grins bigger and nods, "And there, too!"

Gerard sighs like Frank is asking him to build the fucking thing.

"Oh, come on, I'm in Paris! I can't go back to my mother and tell her I never climbed the Eiffel Tower. She demanded pictures, okay? Plus, it's, like, _right there._ "

They've seen it pop in and out view this whole time, winking between trees and buildings, and Frank still can't believe it. He's in fucking _Paris._

"Fine, fine, okay," Gerard concedes and snakes a smoke out of his pack. Frank's got the lighter for him before he's done and he watches Gerard's cheeks hollow as he lights up, hand cupped over Frank's. His hair is a bit greasy at the roots and smells faintly of smoke, and Frank gets a hundredth urge in an hour to mess it up even more.

"Thank you," he finally says once Gerard's stepped away. It comes out a lot more breathless than he'd expected. He also means it.

Gerard purses his mouth around the cigarette, but Frank can tell he's smiling, anyway.

"You're fucking welcome."

*

They walk around for another hour, and Frank concedes he may be ready for a nap and the Eiffel Tower will probably still be there tomorrow. The sleepless flight is still catching up with him, and he's mostly slumped against Gerard's side by the time they shuffle back to the hotel. Gerard is smiling while opening the door, the kind of smile he's probably only peripherally aware of, and Frank watches him and hums a little to himself. It's déjà vu, the nice kind.

This time, he takes a moment to appreciate the room, though, and finally notice that there's a balcony. That's nice. He likes those. The rest of the room is cluttered with Gerard's stuff – so much of it, you'd think he actually lived here. Pencils, markers and sketchpads cover most of the desk surface, and clothes are strewn about everywhere else. Frank wishes for a moment he could see Gerard’s place in Grenoble, see what he’s like in his natural habitat. Maybe someday.

His skin is prickling with exhaustion again, but he might be a little too wired to sleep. They move around each other in companionable silence – Gerard propped up with a hand on the table, sliding his shoes off one by one, Frank slumped on the side of the bed, undoing his own laces. The stillness feels good after the bustle of the city, and he allows his whole body to stretch out on the bed, pants and all.

Gerard turns around and watches him, head tilted to the side. Frank licks his lips and quietly watches him back, his own smile the vaguest impression of his mood. He hopes this is enough to convince Gerard to join him, because he's just a bit too tired for pouncing, which is what he really wants to do while Gerard stands there, looking beautiful.

Maybe this is why it feels like a long time until Gerard shrugs out of his jacket, then slides his t-shirt up and over his head, and climbs onto the bed. As Frank watches his body move towards him, everything switches from low to _on_ , click by click, like an engine revving up, he's fucking ready.

He catches Gerard's lips with his own and immediately it's like there's not enough air left in his lungs for this. His hands shake and he fumbles with his own jeans, then Gerard helps with his, even though his hands shake just as bad. When he looks back at Frank through his bangs, Frank catches his mouth in another kiss, this one more desperate than the one before, and the next few moments are just a blur of taste, shoving elbows, and snagging waistbands, until fucking finally, they're touching skin to skin. Hips and hard dicks lined up, and Gerard shoves up against him and their knees bump against each other from the impact. There's just enough pain that Frank doesn't come the next moment. He hisses through clenched teeth.

"Shit, sorry, hang on," Gerard mumbles, then anchors himself up over Frank on his arms, lines their legs up, and shoves his hips down again. This time, there's no awkwardness, just pure white heat and Frank scrambles against him, pinned down, and begs for more, harder, _again_.

Gerard is so close to him now, Frank buries his nose in his neck and hangs on. His hands slip on Gerard's bare skin and he thrusts up again and again and again, and he sinks his teeth into Gerard's neck when everything tightens and he comes, every bone in his body shuddering beneath his skin. Gerard gives a quick cry in his ear. Frank's shaking so hard, he's clamped onto Gerard from all sides – arms, thighs, and he can't unclench enough to let go.

The next moment, Gerard manages to shake him off enough to wrap a hand around his own cock and Frank just catches one incredible glimpse of Gerard's face right as he comes, all over Frank's stomach and his own fingers. Frank can't look away even after Gerard sags down, hunched over himself, and takes shallow, quiet breaths. "Shit."

"Yeah." Frank's voice catches in his throat. He clears it and feels his lips uncurl in a slow grin. He could probably sleep now. He watches Gerard – the sag of his white shoulders, the slump of his soft cock, the spread of his fingers on his thighs. They catch each other's eye and it feels like maybe there's a thunderstorm coming, or maybe it's just them. Maybe it's him alone, but he doesn't think so. He pulls Gerard down to him and doesn't give a shit about the mess between their stomachs.

It's a while until he's able to sleep, after all.

*

For dinner, Gerard takes him out to a vegetarian place he had apparently scouted out last week, which Frank, predictably, finds ridiculously endearing. He also touches Frank's hand over the tabletop while talking, almost like he doesn't even know he's doing it. Frank keeps catching himself wondering when this – thing, this _thing_ between them - is going to get awkward or weird. He also keeps catching Gerard staring at him with that tilted, slightly squinty-eyed look that sends Frank's belly into a spiral of excited nerves. It's like trying to exist on two separate planes, maybe, or like his body is having a tug of war without his permission.

When the waiter comes to take their order, Gerard orders for both of them, and Frank drinks his sparkling water until the waiter leaves. He thinks maybe a beer would go down better, but he's not an asshole, no matter what Toro may believe.

"So, tell me what to expect at your show," he says instead. It isn't for another couple of days, but Frank likes to be prepared.

Gerard smiles. "The gallery opening? Uhm, some art, I guess."

"With a lot of dick?"

Gerard colors the tiniest bit. Frank seriously cannot wait for this thing. "Yeah, something like that." Then he rubs the back of his neck and plays with his hair a bit. "I guess there's going to be some, uh, people I know? And, like, an art critic or two, I think."

"Big-time?"

Gerard nods slowly, kind of unfocused. "Yeah, pretty big."

"You nervous?"

Gerard chews on his lip and he's clearly lying when he shakes his head. "Nah. I mean, it's not my first showing or anything."

"Ever get big art critics before?"

"Well, I mean… I guess not," he says slowly and frowns. "Are you trying to psych me out? ‘Cause that's kind of a crappy thing to do."

Frank cracks up. "Nah, just giving you shit. I think it's awesome, actually."

"Well, clearly," Gerard grins. "I've never had anyone travel across an ocean to see my shit before."

Now it's Frank's turn to flush. He didn't really travel across the ocean to see Gerard's art, but close enough. He _is_ looking forward to it. "Mikey told me to take pictures, by the way." Right before he added that the pictures better not be of Gerard's junk. Frank made no such promise and got away with it only because he's the boss. He really needs to check in with them tomorrow, see that the place is still standing and all.

"He thinks my art is weird," Gerard sighs. "I mean, I guess I can't blame him."

He sounds almost wistful. Frank's never had a brother, no siblings at all, so he doesn't know what it's like to miss them, but he knows Mikey talks about Gerard almost with a kind of sick reverence, to a point Frank had never understood. Not until now, maybe. "Is it really all dick, or were you just pulling my chain back home?"

Gerard hems and haws a little. "It is and it isn't, I guess. I mean." He sighs and pushes hair out of his eyes. "I love the human form, so I guess it's a theme."

"So, what, you draw a lot of naked dudes just because?"

Gerard bristles a bit, then sags down. That's also becoming a theme. "Yeah, I do. And, like, okay." He leans forward to continue. "I started out just drawing models, like you do in art school, right?"

Frank nods.

"But that shit gets boring super-fast, so you start to develop your own style, seeing what works," Gerard continues. His eyes kind of light up the more he talks. "I guess I went through periods of realism, but that's not what I wanted to do. So I started mixing media, working with wood and metal as well as oils, basically everything you could mix and couldn't." He only pauses to take a gulp of his water. "I drew a ton of buildings and all these, like, industrial landscapes, because it seemed like an important statement on society or whatever at the time." He pauses and looks at Frank like he just wants to make sure Frank is still listening. He is. "And that sold, and I was gaining all kinds of success, but I just kept coming back to the part where I found people way more interesting."

Frank thinks about it. "Curves instead of lines?"

Gerard's eyes widen and he grins. "Yes, exactly! Like, I'd see someone sitting on the train and just stare at the folds of their clothes, you know, and like, why are they sitting the way they are? Why does this dude have a hunch to his shoulders?"

Frank totally understands, except. "So, where does all the dick come in?"

Gerard doesn't even pause. "Comes with the territory of loving dick, I guess."

Frank's pretty glad he doesn't have a drink in his hand, but he sputters, anyway. "Is that, like, an artistic vision?"

Gerard grins and leans in closer, until Frank can make out the dusting of stubble around his jaw, and Frank can't look away from his eyes. "Maybe, but mostly my own personal preference. I find the male form to be pretty fucking hot."

Frank's mouth does a weird thing where it goes dry, then fills up with spit. He wants his hands over Gerard's male form pretty bad. Instead of attacking him across the table and scaring the other patrons, though, he licks his lips and leans back. "I can get behind that," he answers with a grin. "So is that why Mikey finds it weird? He doesn't share your, uh, personal preference?"

Gerard purses his lips in a kind of twisted smile. "Well, there's more to it than dick, I guess. You'll just have to see."

Frank sighs. "Fine, be mysterious. What did you order for me?"

Turns out, Gerard ordered Frank a Pixar film. "I'm having ratatouille? Seriously?"

Gerard just laughs at him.

*

They bump shoulders on the meandering way back to the hotel. It's barely even eleven, and Frank is feeling all kinds of mellow and happy and a buzzing sort of _something_ that hasn't gone away since he landed. It feels like the longest day ever already, but maybe that's what happens when you cross oceans. He wouldn't know.

The walk shouldn't take them by the river, but Gerard does. It's like they've both agreed they're not ready to be back at the hotel yet, and they're quiet, enjoying the night. The streets are busy, and Frank watches beautiful girls scatter by on high heels and dressed-up boys, brushing hair out of their eyes and attempting to catch up. Everywhere, like a brook babbling, is a language he doesn't understand, and by his side is Gerard, cigarette clutched between his fingers, jacket rustling against Frank's shirt whenever he takes a drag. He's pretty far from home.

Frank thinks he should maybe ask Gerard something, like about pets or childhood or school, but he has no idea how. Maybe it's something that has to happen, like, organically. Gerard seems like the sort of dude who would totally talk about this shit for ages, so maybe he doesn't want to. Fuck it, though, Frank's curious.

"So when did you realize you loved dick?" he asks. He actually meant to ask about the other stuff, but apparently, he's got dick on his mind. Gerard looks over at him with huge, surprised eyes.

"What?"

Frank waves his hand around. "When did you realize you were gay?"

"Oh," Gerard says, like it's a different question. His eyebrows draw together in thought. Frank gets a momentary weird urge to lick between them. "Middle school, I guess?"

Frank pauses mid-step. "That early?"

" _Is_ that early? Huh," Gerard says and also stops, cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"I don't know, I didn't figure it out till high school," Frank says with a shrug.

They're right by the bank of the river, so it seems kind of natural that they pause at the wrought-iron gates and lean against them. Frank tilts his face up to Gerard's, and Gerard is looking out across the water to the other side. Frank follows his gaze and wonders if it's still Paris over there, or what.

"Hmm, yeah, no, I knew pretty young," Gerard finally says, then adds with a crooked smile, "So did my entire family, apparently."

Frank laughs. "That obvious, huh?" Gerard just gives him a _look._ Frank raises his hands, palms up. "Okay, I guess it was. Hey, my mom didn't know until she caught me with a dude's dick in my mouth, so."

Gerard actually winces. "Jesus, seriously?"

Frank laughs, even as the memory makes him want to crawl into the deepest hole and die. Suddenly he's _really_ fucking glad they're thousands of miles away. "Yeah, that was a pretty spectacular coming out. Traumatized us both for life, pretty much."

Gerard sounds cautious when he says, "But she's, uh, okay with it, right? Like. Now."

Frank is very happy to report that yes, indeed she is. "She's got all the PFLAG merch her house can handle, she even marched one year," he answers, grinning. "She was fine with it then, too, she just maybe shouldn't have found out through a live-action illustrated guide, is all." In his bedroom in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. It's like he wanted to get caught.

Gerard just laughs and leans in closer. "Who was the guy?"

Frank watches the breeze ruffle Gerard's hair off his forehead. Without thinking about it, he brushes his fingers through it and runs them all the way down to the soft nape of Gerard's neck and feels him shiver. "First great love of my life, I guess."

Gerard squints and quirks his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. "First?"

"Hey, torrid and crazy," Frank whispers back, and his heart hammers in his chest. "You're not the only one with stories."

Gerard leans in to kiss him.

*

They're fumbling for each other's flies as soon as they're through the door. Frank can't remember the last time he wanted to get to someone's skin as bad as he wants Gerard, the last time he's wanted to make someone come as many different ways as he's capable of, the last time just kissing a guy felt like _this_.

He's on Gerard as soon as they're both naked. The condoms and lube are a mess in his hands, but the wasted time is worth it when he slips out his fingers and sinks onto Gerard's dick, lets gravity pull him down in increments as they both gasp.

Gerard throws back his head and whines, a guttural, needy sound. "Fuck, _Frank_." Frank shudders, scrambles back, ruts against him.

He rides him hard, propped up with his hands on Gerard's knees, bent back, going fucking crazy. He'll probably feel it in the morning. Gerard thrusts up hard and stutters, so fucking hot with it, and probably leaves Gerard-shaped bruises on Frank's hips. Frank considers getting them tattooed as mementos, maybe. He jerks himself off and slicks his come-stained fingers all over Gerard's cheeks and lips and willing tongue, then licks it off and tries and fails to catch his breath.

*

Gerard takes him to see the Eiffel Tower the next day. Frank's jetlag means that he's barely blinked his eyes open when Gerard pokes him awake, but that's all right. Poking turns into caresses and caresses turn into groping and the kissing is nice, too, so Frank doesn't really complain.

They take the Metro to the tower, even if it seemed a lot closer than that to Frank. The green leading up to it is impressive. The tower is at the center of the city, but seems a ways away from it when up close. Frank isn't afraid to look like a tourist as he gazes up at where it meets the sky.

It's afternoon Parisian time. The day is the sort of sunny that could turn grey and stormy any second, but Frank still feels like lingering outside a bit. Gerard just laughs at him through his cigarette smoke, and then his eyes go round in surprise when Frank's phone starts cranking out "Astro Zombies."

"Ray!" Frank is already mentally counting up the number of hours in which he can fly home and go put out whatever fire they've set to his baby. "What's going on?"

Ray's high voice is breaking up, so all Frank can hear is "Mikey" and "ank" and "ucking" and it's seriously going to be the end of Frank. The call drops and he curses as he walks around, hand held high, trying to get a good signal going. Fucking phone companies.

He hears a high-pitched giggle behind him and glares when he turns. "What? This shit is seriously annoying," he complains.

Gerard just watches him, arms folded across his chest, and nods his head upwards. Frank frowns and snaps his phone shut. "Huh?"

"We could, I don't know, go up on the tower? I bet the reception is pretty good up there."

Frank feels the color rush his cheeks when Gerard gives him a dimpled grin. Oh. "Right."

*

Frank doesn't pay attention to the view until after he's threatened to fire Ray for scaring him half to death with no good reason. He's just hung up on the bastard laughing at him when Gerard folds his hands over Frank's waist and leads him up to the railing. Frank pushes back against him, but not because he's struggling. It feels nice.

"You wanted to see it, so pay attention," Gerard says low in his ear, and every bone down to his toes melts in Frank's body.

"I'm totally paying attention," he says and does. Despite them not being at the very top, it's breathtaking, in a way that makes you take in the sheer size of the city. Paris is huge, bigger than New York and all its five boroughs. Or maybe it just seems that way, and it also makes him a bit dizzy. He can see the river sparkle, the roiling clouds clatter around the distant sky. When he looks down, he sees a whole lot of cigarette butts strewing the platform and snorts.

"I guess there's no ban on smoking out here," he notes and hangs a little over the railing, just to see how far he can push it. Gerard's fingers tighten on his waist and Frank fights him a little, just because he can.

"Oh my God, stop it," Gerard finally snaps behind him, a little panicked, which is adorable. Frank relents and reels back, slumping against Gerard's chest.

"Not a fan of heights?"

"Not a fan of people splattering down onto the ground in front of me," Gerard grumbles and Frank laughs. He doesn't plan on getting splattered today.

*

He takes about a hundred pictures – some touristy tropes for his mom, some stupid shit for the guys, but most are just for himself. Gerard smoking, hair falling in his cast-down eyes. The bend of his neck as he peeks out over the railing, hands wrapped knuckle-white around the metal. Gerard, grinning at Frank and blowing smoke in his face. Gerard laughing. Gerard.

*

Frank drags him over to the Arc de Triomphe and forces Gerard to take pictures of him underneath it. Frank doesn't want those for himself as much as he wants to make Gerard roll his eyes again, which is hilarious because Gerard never seems to catch on. He takes all the pictures Frank asks him to even as he blushes and grumbles.

Gerard takes him to the Louvre afterwards and stands him right in front of the Mona Lisa, and Frank can't deny it. His heart beats just a little bit faster while looking at her smile at him from behind glass. He's surrounded by pushing crowds, indistinct chatter all around, French, German, Swahili, for all he knows, but all he can see is the portrait in front of him and Gerard's profile out of the corner of his eye. He flashes back to their first morning together, when Gerard's skin was warm against his cheek and Frank could hear the beat of his heart like he'd crawled inside Gerard's chest himself. He wonders what Gerard is thinking next to him. They stand there for a while, knuckles touching.

*

Frank doesn't insist on a vegetarian restaurant that night, so instead, they go to a place with hookahs. Frank hasn't been to any hookah bars on his own side of the Atlantic, so this is pretty sweet, he can admit. So is the tobacco they smoke after dinner, and he feels giddy and high on laughter, sprawled across from Gerard on a leather bench that's making his ass slide down bit by bit as he moves. He keeps tensing his thighs just to stay in place, then catches Gerard's eye and almost giggles himself off the bench.

"Oh my God, what the hell is in this shit?" he splutters after he pushes himself back up. He knows it isn't weed, but it can't be just plain old tobacco, either, can it?

Gerard confirms that it's totally tobacco, and takes another drag. He must hold it in just a bit too long, because he comes up hacking, eyes watering, smoke curling out of his nostrils. Frank cracks up again. "Amateur," he wheezes through the laughter. Gerard kicks him in the shin and continues coughing, doubles over.

He's out of it just long enough for Frank to start worrying about not knowing the French equivalent of 911, but then the hacking cough turns into a dry wheeze and then Gerard is punching his own chest and grinning back at Frank. His face is about ten shades redder than his hand.

"Wow, that was – really embarrassing," he gasps and turns even redder. Frank's eyes are watering from the smoke and the laughter and he shakes his head quickly.

"That was hilarious, is what it was. It's like you're, I don't know, thirteen and having your first smoke, trying to impress the captain of the cheerleading squad or something."

Gerard makes a great surprised face, then finally stops coughing for good. "That's incredibly specific," he comments and his voice is still raspy, kind of used. Frank grins harder.

"I'm an incredibly specific kind of guy," he says before he can stop himself. He covers up being an idiot by grabbing the pipe and sucking in more smoke. It doesn't quite have the mellowness levels of weed, but it tickles his mouth and nostrils with sweetness. He fucking loves France.

*

"So, did you know French when you came over here?"

They've pulled up a couple of chairs on to the balcony, and Frank enjoys the air as he lifts his face up to the breeze. The smog of the city doesn't quite reach them up here, and the air smells good. He knows they're just going to pollute it in a second with their cigarettes, but that comes with the territory.

Gerard makes a humming noise. "Only a couple of phrases, I guess. You know, _merci, au revoir_ , that kind of thing."

Frank whistles. "And you're fluent after, what, a year?"

Gerard nods his head, smile all pleased. "Year and a few months, yeah." He shrugs and reaches for the lighter. "I mean, it helps being thrown into an atmosphere where you're fucked if you don't learn, you know?"

Frank really hopes he never actually has to know and nods fervently. "Still, that's – wow, impressive." He reaches over when Gerard does and plucks the lighter from his fingers. "Say something," he offers as he cups his hands around the cigarette.

Gerard laughs at him. "What do you want me to say?"

Frank inhales the first drag. "Fuck, anything you want, as long as it's in French."

He's been looking mostly at a window across from them, where a light had come on in the kitchen. There's a kid in there, making himself a sandwich, by the looks of it. Now Frank turns his head to look at Gerard. His face mixes with the falling shadows; his hair is becoming inky black. Frank wants to reach over and touch it again, which is weird, really, as he's never particularly had a thing for greasy hair.

Gerard is silent a while, and Frank almost loses patience when Gerard finally opens his mouth. " _Je veux vraiment te baiser._ "

A shiver runs its way down Frank's spine, because damn, that is hot. He has to clear his throat before he can ask what it means, and even then Gerard just cocks his head at him and gives him a bit of an evil grin. "You should look it up. There's a double meaning in it."

Frank throws his shoe at him.

*

The ashtray is smoking along with them. It's dark, but just like with any other respectable metropolis, the stars are nowhere to be found. Frank still looks for them by inertia. It's warm and pleasant and he feels like he's maybe floating somewhere not in reality, and if he stares at the sky long enough, he knows he'll feel a bit like he's in space and that's pretty nice, too.

"Fuck, this is nice," Gerard says out of nowhere and Frank huffs out a laugh. They've got the little rickety ashtray table in between them, but he can feel Gerard's warmth radiating next to him. He reaches back to scratch his head and plays with the ends of his hair, where he hasn't gotten it trimmed recently, humming.

Another light turns on in the building across from theirs. This time, there's a woman, maybe Frank's age, maybe a bit older, padding her way across the living room. He can't see her face very well, but even from this distance, she looks striking. Tall, built, nicely wide around the hips, with long auburn hair. She's tying it up in a ponytail as she makes her way into another, darkened, room.

When Frank turns towards Gerard, he sees him watching her, too, and for some reason, it makes him smile. "Do you ever think about other people's private lives?" he asks.

Gerard startles out of his reverie and turns to face Frank. "What do you mean? Like, their sex lives?"

"Yeah. Like. You're passing a dude on the street, and he looks like someone you might find interesting, like not to sleep with or anything, just as a person. Ever have that?"

Gerard looks kind of confused, but goes with it. "Sure, all the time."

"Right?" Frank ashes on the ground and shifts in the chair until he's more comfortable. "And then do you wonder what his life is like outside of that street? Like. What're his friends like? What stupid faces does he make during sex?"

"What he looks like when he isn't wearing clothes," Gerard chimes in, looking past Frank, maybe at the dude they're both picturing. "What his lover might look like…"

Frank feels himself grinning like an idiot. "Exactly."

Gerard's gaze comes back from wherever he'd been floating and he returns Frank's smile. "Shit, I think about that all the time. That's half the fun of doing art, imagining that shit."

Frank laughs. He feels weirdly free, like he could say whatever comes to mind and not feel like an idiot. "I used to miss train stops, watching people and wondering about that."

Gerard hums and exhales smoky rings. "I always wanna know what people's sex lives are like. Like, all the gory details, down to the bone, you know?"

"Creep," Frank teases.

"I think we already established that," Gerard says, looking down at his own lap and smiling crookedly. Frank smiles back, remembers.

"Yeah. Obviously, likewise," he finally says. "I wondered what you'd be like in bed first time I saw you."

Gerard's gaze shoots up. "No fucking way, are you serious?"

Frank shrugs. "Yep." Right after Gerard had given him that first smoke. In fact, he'd specifically wondered what Gerard would be like fucking Frank through the floor, but he doesn't mention that now. Maybe another time.

Gerard's face darkens with the blush and he bites his lip. "Was your imagination right? Like…did I live up to it, or what?"

Frank scrunches up his mouth in an attempt not to answer, but he can't just let it go. "Better," he says into his lap. "You were – are – so much better."

When he looks back at Gerard, Gerard's eyes are all white irises, pupils focused directly on Frank. Frank drops his gaze and scratches at a non-existent itch on his arm. "What, is that weird?"

"No, I… That's good," Gerard replies and pauses. "I wondered about you, too. Not, like, right away, but." He catches Frank's gaze and Frank squirms a little in his seat, trying to stop his ass from going numb.

"And?"

"I –" He pauses. "I still wonder about some things," he says, kind of quieter this time.

"Oh, yeah?" Frank kind of likes where this is going. "Like what?"

After a thoughtful silence, Gerard says, "Well." Then he stops and clears his throat. He's splaying all five fingers on his hand out like he's trying to spread them as far as they'll go, then making a fist. He goes through this a couple of times until Frank rolls his eyes at him.

"Spit it out, what?" Gerard is clearly fishing for something specific, and Frank is all ears now.

"It's kind of personal, I guess," Gerard finally says, and his voice is kind of uncertain.

Frank tilts his head. "How personal?"

Gerard scrunches up his face. "Pretty fucking personal."

"Well, we've _been_ pretty fucking personal," Frank points out, not adding that maybe flying across an ocean on three weeks' notice is about as personal as you can get. "So, shoot."

Gerard bites his lip before asking. "So, how much of a bottom are you, really?"

Frank can't stop himself from giggling. "What do you think?"

Gerard takes a drag and squints while he exhales before answering, but he doesn't look uncomfortable or uncertain anymore. Frank can't stop grinning, because what the hell. He loves talking about this shit. Their mouths are mere inches apart by the time Gerard answers, "All evidence points to you loving to get fucked."

His breath is warm and smoky and Frank leans in even closer and nudges Gerard's mouth with his own lips. "You might be onto something there," he whispers. Gerard's tongue touches Frank's, slowly, and Frank feels his fingers curl up into fists, feels his entire body shivering beneath his skin, like ripples over water.

"And the hair thing," Gerard whispers, so soft, Frank can barely hear him.

"The hair thing?" Frank _tries_ for casual, but fails pretty bad. His lungs keep constricting as he waits.

"Yeah, your hair thing. I wanna explore it a bit more," Gerard says, gaze flickering across Frank's face, and brings a hand up to tug hard on the hair at the base of Frank's skull. Frank curls over and gasps before he can even process what happened. "Yeah, that," Gerard murmurs against him and does it again.

Frank moans. He can't fucking help himself, Gerard is everywhere, surrounding him. He can barely manage to get the words out. "It's pretty self-explanatory," he pants and stops himself from begging Gerard for more, but only just.

Gerard's nose brushes his own and Frank can feel the heat radiating off Gerard's cheeks, he must be burning up. Frank isn't really much better. He can feel the tension in Gerard's hand, his shoulders, he has no idea what's going to happen next, but maybe it's time to ask some questions of his own. "You got a plan here?"

The next moment, the rickety table holding the ashtray clatters to the ground and Gerard is practically in Frank's lap, thighs squeezing, hand clutching at the back of Frank's head. Wow. Okay.

"To fuck you through the fucking floor," Gerard breathes in his ear and Frank's everything shudders, his belly swoops; he's giddy with it.

"Yes, please," is just about all he can manage through the fog.

*

Frank is tied to the headboard by a belt and a tie with Gerard's tongue just barely touching his ass. All he can focus on are the headboard slats in front of him. His thighs are shaking. "Ger – Gerard –"

Gerard doesn't say anything, because his tongue is currently fluttering so light and feathery, Frank can barely feel it. What he _can_ feel is making his eyes roll to the back of his head. Fucking Gerard, _Jesus_.

Frank hates being teased as a general rule. He hates how bored he gets, he can't stand it when guys try to show off their prowess by going just near enough to not be enough at all. He tends to lose any interest and has to will himself to get hard again when they stop teasing and start actually _doing._

Right now, he's fucking hard as a rock, balls heavy and tight, and he's whining, gasping, barely recognizing his own voice. Fucking _Gerard._

Frank can't even touch him, he can't do anything but writhe, pinned into place by Gerard's hands gripping the backs of his thighs so tight, his skin stings. Frank can sort of talk, though, and he does, babbles at Gerard in words even he barely understands, mostly pleading, sometimes cursing. Gerard just moans against him. Frank's thighs keep almost giving out on him and forcing him to slide back, rut against Gerard's face. He can't even get a clue into what Gerard is thinking because he can't see anything but the empty wall in front of him, and he's barely aware of anything anymore when Gerard finally stops teasing.

At the first flutter of his tongue against Frank's asshole, Frank's back arches and he almost bucks Gerard off. Gerard's hands tighten around his thighs and bite into the skin there, a warning. Frank tries to relax, but mostly fails and he doesn't really care, he's strung so tight, he feels like he's going to snap. This feels too good, too fucking crazy, for him to do anything more than shudder against Gerard's face and desperately want Gerard's dick where his mouth is.

The restraints on his wrists are probably leaving serious marks and his hands have the headboard in a white-knuckled grip. His skin feels sensitized, raw, burnt out; he maybe wants to cry.

"Oh, fuck, oh God, just – oh _God_ , fuck me already," he whimpers and knows that Gerard won't listen to him. Frank signed up for this, he _knows_ , but it doesn't mean he can't beg. "Want your dick in me, Jesus, Gerard, just fucking do it, please, _please_ –"

Gerard doesn't listen, of course, and Frank is past ready to crawl out of his skin. All the sensations start bleeding into one pulsating thrum of fucking _need,_ all the places in his body he isn't used to noticing zinging and whining. He gasps when he feels something harder than Gerard's tongue slide inside and almost cries from relief when he realizes Gerard is using his finger. For a long moment he feels suspended in motion, everything throbbing around his bones.

When Gerard finally fucks him, he fucks him so hard, Frank's dick almost drills a hole through the wall between the headboard slats. They're both damp all over, his sweat mixing in with Gerard's, Gerard's mouth leaving wet trails down Frank's neck and shoulder and Frank can't even hold his head up anymore. He's slumped with his back against Gerard, head resting in the crook of his neck, and he's shouting himself raw. Gerard feels so fucking good inside him, huge and hard and just what he fucking _needs._

"Jesus, Frank, you're so fucking tight, so good, baby," Gerard chants and Frank could listen to the loop of his voice forever, if Gerard keeps talking filthy like this, undone, riding without a filter. Frank wishes he could touch him with his hands, but he settles for the rest of his body, his fingers clenching around the headboard, instead. Gerard's shaking the bed, they both are, and Frank really hopes the walls have been soundproofed, because they'll have some pissed off Frenchmen in the morning if they haven't.

"You're such a good fuck, Frankie, I love you begging for it, beg me again, what do you want, tell me, I wanna know -"

Frank's voice catches in his throat. "Touch me, please, touch my dick," he gasps. Gerard's hand eases its death grip on Frank's ribcage and slides down his belly and wraps around Frank's cock. Frank cries out and then whimpers, "Kiss me, please, just –"

He doesn't have to ask twice because as soon as he turns his head towards Gerard, Gerard catches his mouth and it's barely even a kiss. It's tongue and teeth and breath and then Gerard tunnels his fingers through Frank's hair and gives it a hard tug. Frank cries out into his mouth, and Gerard does it again, harder this time. Frank's hips snap up and back and he can't catch his breath, not until Gerard does it again, and then, for one moment, it's like he's floating out of his skin through every pore. Everything curls up, tightens, and then gives out, and Frank stutters out a curse and shoots all over Gerard's fist and the headboard and the wall and he doesn't, _doesn't_ care, because Gerard's cradling his head in his palm, face pressed against Frank's cheek, murmuring nonsense while Frank shakes apart in his arms. When Frank finally gets his breath back, he realizes he can't understand a single word coming out of Gerard's mouth.

" _Oh, t'es incroyable, je te veux, juste comme ça, je te veux pour toujours, Frank_ ," Gerard whispers and keeps fucking him, just as hard but less steady now, and Frank whines low in his throat, he wants to know, he wants to _know_ -

"Gerard –"

"Frank, Frankie, I want you to -"

"What, what –"

"Wanna come in your mouth, let me fuck your mouth." Gerard sounds delirious and on the brink, but Frank pulls away from him immediately, chanting, "yes, yes, fuck, yes," and his mouth waters.

Gerard grabs Frank's hips and pulls out steady but pretty damn quick, too, cursing. Frank gasps from the pressure being released, the soreness and sudden emptiness, but he can't even think about it too much, because Gerard unties one of his hands with clumsy, shaking fingers and as soon as Frank's released, Gerard tugs off the condom and wedges himself on his knees in between Frank and the headboard. Frank doesn't need Gerard's hand to guide his head down, but he relishes it, anyway, leans into it, almost fucking purrs.

He loves Gerard's dick, loves the shape, how it stretches his mouth, loves the desperate noises Gerard makes when Frank first licks it base to crown. Positioned as he is with one hand on Gerard's hip and the other resting at an awkward angle still tied to the bed, he still can't fucking get enough of this - the taste, pre-come mingling with the rubber, the salt of Gerard's skin underneath. Gerard's fingers are still wrapped around Frank's hair, holding him steady for the rhythm of his hips. Frank closes his eyes and tries to remember to breathe through his nose; he keeps forgetting to breathe at all.

Gerard is babbling above him, mixing languages and metaphors and Frank can feel how fucking close he is. He slides his freed hand down to touch Gerard's balls and when Gerard moans and spreads his legs, Frank pushes further back, over the tendon and past it, past it until he finds what he's looking for and starts rubbing as he sucks. Gerard goes fucking crazy.

"Ah! Frankie, _God_ -"

His hand tights in Frank's hair and Frank's dick stirs; unbelievable. He sucks harder, lathes his tongue against the base and then he feels it. Gerard's head thuds against the wall when he comes, his dick pulsing huge in Frank's mouth, filling his throat. Frank sucks him through all of it, allows his throat to take it, knowing that he probably shouldn't have, and knowing it's way past all the "should haves," anyway. He can barely hold himself up, it's like he's hanging by a string. Or by a belt, maybe.

When Gerard pushes him off his dick, Frank is barely conscious. His dick is half-hard, but there's nothing he plans on doing about it. He feels Gerard's unsteady hands undoing the restraints and almost falls over, except that Gerard catches him awkwardly by the ribs.

"Hang on," he whispers and lowers Frank to the bed. Frank falls willingly.

He's sore and lying sideways in a wet spot and blissed out and a bunch of other things he isn't going to poke at too closely right now. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Gerard gets up and makes his wobbly way to the bathroom. Frank can hear him pissing in the dark and thinks he should do the same, but he just can't imagine walking right now.

He floats in the reeking-of-sex cloud of the bed until Gerard stumbles back and half falls on him. Frank laughs and paws at his side. Gerard's hair is a mess, and there's a bright spot on his cheek. Frank reaches up and touches it with a tip of his finger. Gerard turns his head to drop a light kiss on his hand.

"You good?"

Frank just grins and shuts his eyes, throwing up a half-hearted thumbs-up. He wishes he could keep Gerard company in his post-sex state of awake, but his body is pretty much done with consciousness.

Gerard turns over the pillows stained with come and resettles the sheets around them. Frank tries to gather up enough energy to mock him, but he falls asleep with his head on Gerard's chest, instead, one arm thrown over his sticky belly. He smells the smoke of Gerard's cigarette as he drifts off, and briefly wonders what Gerard's dreaming about with his eyes open.

*

Frank wakes up once in the middle of the night. His eyes fly open from some dream he can't chase back, and when he shifts to try for a more comfortable position, Gerard wakes up, too. There's a split moment when Frank is disoriented and barely awake, and then Gerard's arm pulls him in and just like that, they're kissing. Frank's heart squeezes in his chest and he lingers on the edge of reality for another long moment of sharing Gerard's breath.

They fall back asleep almost immediately, but right before he drops off, Frank feels like something huge just settled itself in his chest. He just can't figure out what.

*

When Frank wakes up in the morning, it's to a crack of thunder. He stretches and winces, feeling the pop and ache in every joint. He's sore in some expected places, and his left shoulder feels like it's been popped out of its socket and popped back in without pain killers. He stretches it a little while he looks out the window. Gerard had been so intent on fucking Frank into the bed, they never even shut the curtains, and now Frank watches the sky roll in angry, grey waves. Rain is coming down vertically, splattering the glass door, round loud drops landing on the balcony, and probably on every roof, too, but he can't see that far. Every now and then, lightning flashes. It's stupidly beautiful. He's always loved thunderstorms.

He shifts and feels Gerard breathing evenly behind him. Still asleep. Frank crawls out from under the covers and carefully pads over to the balcony door on stiff and tight legs. He feels like a little kid, looking out the window at the raging storm outside. He loves the power of it, the raw smell of electricity in the air.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open, feeling a little guilty, because immediately, the sounds of rain and thunder are amplified by about a thousand. He quickly steps out onto the balcony and shuts the door behind him. He has to make a bee-line around the furniture Gerard threw around last night in his quest to fuck Frank through the floor, but he makes it out to the railing without stepping on anything that got broken in the process, and then leans over it.

He's wet almost immediately. His feet are freezing from the cold cement and his dick is trying to crawl inside his balls. It's fucking exhilarating, and it's always better to get wet naked than having cold, wet clothes clinging to you, anyway. He turns his face up to the storm and knows it's probably stupid; the last thing he needs is to get sick while on vacation, but the air is mostly warm, and he's never really been that smart, anyway.

His eyelashes stick when he opens his eyes again and blinks at the drenched city in front of him. It's so different from home, but doesn't _feel_ like a strange place. He watches two girls run under an awning with newspapers over their heads when there's a muted click behind him and the door's thrown open.

Gerard has to yell in order for Frank to hear him, even though they're a foot away.

"I didn't know you were such a romantic!"

Frank laughs without turning around and waits for Gerard to join him. After a while, he has to turn around, anyway, because Gerard is a pussy. "What, you afraid to get a little wet?"

Gerard is standing in the doorway with his arms wrapped around himself and his nose wrinkled. He's also stark naked and half-hard and wilting. Frank cracks up and extends a hand. "C'mon, live a little!"

Gerard purses his lips and cranes his neck to see if there's anybody around. Like there are other crazy people who'll stand on open balconies during thunderstorms with morning wood. After a moment of hesitation, though, Gerard steps outside and gets instantly soaked. "This isn't as fun as it looks in movies," he yells in Frank's ear and Frank just laughs.

"It's better! You're feeling it, aren't you?"

Gerard bumps their noses together and huddles in close. "I'm not sure that's a good thing."

"You're a total pussy, man," Frank laughs again and wraps his soaking arms around him, tilting his face up as droplets slide down their noses and chins. "You should kiss me to make this a real movie moment."

Gerard cracks a lop-sided smile and shrugs. "Yeah? I don't know, I'm not really feeling it right now."

Frank punches him on the arm. "How about now?"

"Oh, well, then," Gerard nods and brushes their lips together. He tastes like rainwater, and when Frank touches Gerard's tongue with his own, he tastes sleep underneath. Gerard is wet and cold against him. Frank should probably relent and get them inside, but fuck it, he's not man enough to let go yet. Gerard hums against him, then bites Frank's lips. His fingers dig into Frank's hips and he must have bruises, because it smarts; it also sends shivers up his spine.

The rain lets up while they're kissing, going from sheeting water to a light drizzle within moments; a real spring storm. The sky lightens over the horizon and what finally drives them inside is a series of catcalls coming from various open windows and the street below. They're breathless and laughing by the time Gerard latches the door closed and sags against Frank, his giggles drying out in the crook of Frank's neck. Frank tries to balance them both enough not to fall on the bed and get it wet.

"Now will you take a fucking shower with me?" he asks when Gerard steps back and starts shaking out his wet hair like a dog.

"Didn't we just get all clean?" Gerard whines, and Frank really should have seen that coming. Mikey _had_ warned him. It's like talking to a three year old.

"There was a lot of fucking last night and rain doesn't actually constitute getting clean."

After that, he doesn't give Gerard the option, just leads him by the hand to the bathroom and bodily pushes him into the tub. It takes them a while to get clean, but at least Frank leaves the bathroom secure in the knowledge that he did his best. If he was a girl scout, he totally would have earned those stripes.

*

It's the day of the gallery opening, which means Gerard has to run around and "get shit done," which leaves Frank to bum around Paris by himself. At least that's what he tells himself, until Gerard casually mentions that the place they had lunch at the other day has free wifi.

So, really, what it means is that after waving Gerard off, Frank drags out his laptop and pretends not to be working from France. It's a bit of a challenge, what with the city looking kind of beautiful after being washed by storms, and the fresh air getting mixed in with the gritty smell of the river. He's sitting right in the doorway, looking out at the water lapping, and it does take him a while to drag his attention back to his computer.

Then he spends over an hour going through several pages of backlogged emails and trying not to rip his hair out and trust that shit is getting done without him. He's suspecting Ray of not cc'ing him on all the problems, but he's got no proof to back any of it, even though Ray is exactly the sort of asshole who expects Frank to not think about work while on vacation.

His finger is hovering over the call button on his phone, after the latest of Matt's diatribes about unnecessary workload and insufficient resources takes a pretty scary turn towards the end, when somebody taps his shoulder.

"Huh?"

Frank whips around and sees that a young guy's pulled up a chair next to him, sitting cozy like he means to stay a while. Frank frowns. "Uh." He would normally either ask if he can help him or if the dude would kindly fuck off, Frank's _busy_ , but he's in France. Dude probably doesn't even speak English.

Which, of course, is a totally ridiculous assumption, because the dude opens his mouth and asks, "You are an American, oui?" in perfectly lucid, if accented, English.

"Oui." It's out of Frank's mouth before he can process it. "Uhm. Can I help you?"

The guy is young, maybe younger than Frank. Pretty good-looking, too, if you go in for tall, dark-haired dudes with distinct noses, which Frank absolutely does. The guy smiles and oh, yeah, he's also got dimples.

"Oui, I think you can."

He settles in closer, forcing Frank to pull his laptop away from danger on the slightly unbalanced table, and rests his chin on his hand. "You are, hmm, very interesting looking, I think."

Frank blinks. "Uh – excuse me?"

The guy takes his chin off his hand and reaches out in what looks like a handshake. Frank is kind of too stunned not to accept, and also, he was raised by Linda Iero. He's never not going to shake a stranger's hand when it's offered, _thanks, Mom._

"I'm Adrien," the guy offers, shaking Frank's hand. Frank pulls away pretty quick and does his best not to wipe his clammy palm on his jeans.

"I'm, uh, Frank."

Adrien breaks into a huge smile. "Frank! Well, it is nice to make your, uh, acquaintance."

Frank is still totally at sea, because – is he seriously getting chatted up by a random French dude right now? All evidence points to "yes," but it seems too absurd to even contemplate.

At this point, Adrien is kind of really in Frank's face, and Frank can smell the sharpness of his clothes, tobacco mixed in with spices. He finally manages a "You, too," before he can locate his balls again, at which point he demands, "Is there anything I can help you with? I'm kind of working here."

Adrien leans back but doesn't stop smiling at him, which is kind of bizarre; Frank would have been backing the fuck off by now. Instead, Adrien tilts his head and squints, like he's really _contemplating_ Frank, which is the quickest way to piss Frank off. The dude seems nice, but Frank is mostly done with him. " _Yes_?"

"Am I – please tell me if I'm wrong, but am I correct in assuming you are, what's the word…queer?"

Frank thinks his eyeballs might actually pop out of their sockets and clatter away like in a Tom & Jerry cartoon. "What the _fuck_?"

"Oh!" Adrien's eyes grow large and alarmed. "I did not intend for that to be an insult, my apologies!"

Frank makes a gesture that he hopes is universal for _what the fuck_ and _get on with it before I pop you one,_ and waits for an explanation.

"It is just – you are rather striking, yes? And I was wondering – that is, I thought it might be easier to get the prosaic things out of the way, you see?"

Frank doesn't, like, at all. "Get the what out of the where, now?"

"Oh, you know," Adrien waves a hand around to illustrate his elusive point, "the tedious business of ‘I am not interested in your sex', all that – homosexual or not stuff."

Frank thinks he might be swimming up to what this guy is taking a whole century to get to. He decides to cut to the chase. "So, you wanna know if I'll suck your dick, basically. If I am interested in, uh, your sex."

Frank is pretty impressed with how wide Adrien's eyes get, but he's a bit wary of the eagerness there. "Oui, oui, yes!" Adrien exclaims and wraps his arm around the back of Frank's chair. "And, if I may be so bold, I have a feeling that you _are_ interested?"

Frank can't not laugh. In another life, maybe. "Adrien, I'm sorry," he says, as graciously as he can manage. "While I am, as you put it, _queer_ , I am not interested in your, uhm, self, in particular."

"Why not?" He looks genuinely surprised and disappointed, and Frank pauses and wonders: really, why not?

He leans back against the wall, at this point basically sideways in his chair, and searches for a reason that won't make him question his own sanity. He finally settles on, "I'm here with someone," and hopes that does it.

"Oh," Adrien nods and moves away. "You are here _with_ someone, I see. Where is he?"

Frank scratches the dull surface of his laptop. "Working. Right now."

"He is French?"

Frank laughs. "No. But he lives here. In France, I mean." For now.

Adrien leans back a bit more and tilts his head in a smile. "Fascinating. And is he as – _sympathique_ \- cute – as you?"

Frank hears his own stupid giggle. "Cuter. And he speaks French." Jesus, is he bragging? What the fuck.

"Well, would he be up for – getting to know me better, perhaps?"

Frank has to give it to the guy – he doesn't give up easy. And Frank has no idea how to answer that question for Gerard. Would he? Frank doesn't think _he_ would be, though, so it's probably a moot point. He hopes so, anyway.

Just as he's about to open his mouth and say something to drive Adrien away from him for good, their topic of conversation walks through the door. It takes Gerard a moment to spot Frank at the corner table, but Frank can see the very second it all clicks together, and he blushes despite himself. Then he feels stupid, and blushes even more, and then the (totally unnecessary) guilt sinks in. Jesus, he wasn't even _doing_ anything, but the look on Gerard's face is pretty comical. And kind of unreadable, at the same time.

"Frank?"

It isn't until Gerard calls out Frank's name uncertainly that Adrien turns his head and adds two and two together. Or maybe one and one. Frank leans forward and gives Gerard a grin, hoping to reassure him, though of what, he has no fucking idea. The whole thing is ridiculously awkward, and maybe a little funny, or maybe it will be eventually.

"You finish up early?" he asks as soon as Gerard's walked up to the table and pushed his sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes are bright, maybe a little tired.

"Yeah, apparently they didn't need me anymore, or whatever."

Gerard's voice is distracted, and he's shooting glances at Adrien. Frank has no idea what to do. Adrien, it seems, is feeling none of the awkwardness hanging around the table. He reaches out his hand as soon as Gerard's is within shaking distance, and smiles as he purrs, "I'm Adrien, it is a pleasure." He pauses and Frank can practically feel him raking his gaze over Gerard. "You are Frank's someone, I see."

Gerard's mouth is hanging open, kind of sideways, and it would be pretty funny, if Frank wasn't busy wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He clears his throat and shakes his head and finally decides, fuck it, why is this guy the one running the show?

"Gerard, Adrien here decided to join me for lunch. He was just wondering if you'd be up for a threesome."

"Oh, yes!" Adrien nods eagerly and turns his large eyes onto Gerard. "What are your thoughts?"

Gerard's mouth drops open even wider, but Frank waits him out, hoping the absurdity of it all will click for Gerard any minute now. Finally, it does – Gerard snaps his mouth shut, then grins slow and fucking beautiful. "I leave you alone for an afternoon, and you've already set up a threesome? Tsk-tsk-tsk." Frank purses his lips against a grin. Gerard tilts his head and gives Adrien an assessing look. "Mmmm, no. I'm sorry, Adrien, I don't think so. It was nice to meet you, though. Ready, Frankie?"

Frank is ready. He extricates himself from a disappointed-looking Adrien, and bites his lip as he stuffs his computer back into his bag – he'd laugh, but that might be rude. Instead, he tries not to fumble with his bag too much, and to remember to grab his phone off the table. He leaves the half-empty coffee cup and walks around until Gerard's within reach.

He's not expecting the kiss Gerard lays on him, but he leans into it by force of habit, and his stomach flips over. He didn't expect to start this habit. It's nice, though, he could get used to it. Gerard's mouth is familiar and hot, and his hands feel nice around Frank's face. Frank loses a bit of time in the kiss, and his head swims.

"Hotel?" Gerard asks when he pulls away, and Frank realizes that they've both forgotten there's anybody around at all. Gerard's gaze is on Frank's, and Frank watches him back. His shoulders start to ache from the awkward way he's holding his bag.

"Oui," he finally says and heaves the bag up over his chest. Gerard throws him a tiny grin and leads him out by the hand. Bye, Adrien.

*

Frank has every noble intention of getting Gerard naked and dirty once they're back at the hotel, but his limbs feel heavy and he has to admit that, once again, his body is against him. He can't believe he's still this jet-lagged and exhausted. Maybe he's just old.

It doesn't help that Gerard notices and mocks him, nose crinkling up with his grin. "Need another nap, grandpa? I'll wake you up for your evening tea, don't worry."

"Fuck you," Frank says, yanking his shirt over his head. "You ever have Epstein-Barr, motherfucker?"

Gerard wrinkles his nose again, this time looking confused. "What the fuck is Epstein-Barr?"

Frank skims out of his pants. "It's like mono, and it fucking sticks, okay?" So, he's vaguely lying – he hasn't been all that sick in a few years, but a relapse now and then isn't, like, out of the realm of possibility. He just wants a nap, okay?

"Well, that sucks," Gerard concedes and throws the covers back so Frank can crawl under them. When Frank's all snuggled up in the bed, Gerard hovers a little, like he doesn't know where to go. Frank feels like a dick – he's kind of taken over Gerard's room with his everything.

"Sorry, I can totally not, uh –"

"Hmm?"

"You don't have to, like, be quiet or anything, I sleep like the dead." Frank watches Gerard's brows unfurl and he stops paying attention to his own discomfort. Gerard's just so fucking _pretty,_ Jesus.

"Hey, I'm fine," Gerard says and Frank has to force himself to hear the words, because he's kind of in that space between deep thought and light sleep already. He solves Gerard's hovering problem by yanking on his hand and bringing their faces together.

"Wake me up in an hour?" he whispers. He hasn't slept this much in years, he realizes. Maybe it's because he hasn't had a vacation in longer. It's comfortable now, for some reason, knowing he can, doesn't need to rush anywhere. There are still days of laziness ahead of him.

Gerard's smile is barely a breath away from his own. "Sounds good."

After a brief kiss which kind of makes Frank crave a smoke, Gerard straightens up and Frank turns over, so he doesn't get distracted. He wants to be totally awake tonight, and he has a feeling it's going to be a bit of a late affair. He lets himself drift away to thoughts of nothing in particular and the sounds of Gerard's quiet shuffling, until all the city sounds get cut off with the balcony door shutting, leaving Gerard on the other side.

*

" – not that nervous… Haha, you're hilarious…"

Frank's pillow is damp, and the light is diffused behind his eyelids. He stretches out his legs and moves his head so he's not in the wet spot anymore.

"Don't – don't put Ma back on the phone, oh for the love of – hi, Mom."

Frank smiles despite himself and tries to figure out how long he's been asleep. Gerard's voice is muted through the door, but Frank bets if the balcony doors were open, Gerard would be practically yelling. Frank lies there and pretends not to listen to the one-sided conversation.

"Everything's all set. … Yes, I'll send you pictures. … No, but someone will be, I'm sure. …. He'll be busy, Ma. No, not – ugh. Tell Alicia to get off the line, what the hell."

Frank sniggers and finally cracks his eyes open. He admits that he's awake, but it's nice to just lie there and stretch and enjoy the cool room from under the covers. Maybe Gerard will come in to wake him up once he's off the phone and he can drag him under the covers.

"- fine, mom, oh my God. … of course it was … I don't know. It's nice. ….All right, I won't vomit on his shoes. … Yeah. … Okay. Love you, too. … Hey, Mikes."

Frank's brain is swirling in lazy circles, and he tries to picture where Mikey is right now. Clearly not working – is he at the Ways'? His and Alicia's place? He's probably at the Ways', and Mrs. Way is prying, while Don pretends not to be from behind the paper. Frank laughs at the image, then tries to figure out what Mikey could be saying to Gerard. How weird that Frank knows him so much better than he knows Gerard, but it doesn't – almost doesn't feel like it.

He turns over and watches Gerard's back for a while, where he's lounging in the chair, face turned down, phone barely visible in his hand. Gerard's got that sketchpad resting on his lap, half filled in with drawings Frank can't make out from the bed.

He can't hear him anymore, just the muted sounds of words, nothing distinct. He's heard Mikey on the phone with Gerard a couple of times, and it always cracked Frank up how quiet and secretive he'd sound, so different from the everyday Mikey Way who monotoned his way through each work day. Now, it makes something tweak in Frank's chest. Brothers. That's got to be nice, having a person who knows everything about you and loves you, anyway.

He strains to pick up even a word or two, but no dice – Gerard's mumbling something that doesn't even sound like a language. Frank gives up and watches Gerard's hand clutching the phone. He likes Gerard's hands, they look like those hands artists draw all the time. Every knuckle is distinct, the tips of his fingers blunt and cool-looking.

He yawns and fights the covers off, trying to tell the time on the alarm clock. It's five seventeen, time to get up, anyway. He sees Gerard click the phone shut and slowly tuck it away into his jacket.

*

Frank had packed a suit to wear to the opening, because his mother made him, but now he's not so sure. Gerard is wearing faded black jeans with paint stains splattered across the fabric, a black t-shirt with a grey hummingbird on it, and –

"Is that a tux jacket?" he asks when Gerard emerges from the bathroom, still in the process of zipping up his fly.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah," Gerard smiles and runs a hand through his hair.

"I shouldn't be surprised, right?"

"What do you mean?"

Frank waves his hand in Gerard's general direction. "I mean, you didn't wear a suit to Mikey's wedding, I don't know why I expected one here. But this is, uh. Cool." Frank has no idea how Gerard manages to pull that shit off so well. He looks exactly how he should.

Gerard snaps his gum and grins, eyes bright. "Hey, I'm the artist, I don't have to conform."

"Too true," Frank mumbles, turning towards the closet mirror. He feels kind of stupid now, decked out in a suit and tie. He hates wearing these things on general principle, but he doesn't know what to change into. He's itchy and the tie's too tight and he just wants to yank it off and start all over again. He can't stand feeling this discombobulated.

Gerard comes up behind him and Frank watches in the mirror as Gerard's hands skim down Frank's arms and then over to the front of the jacket. "You look really good," he whispers and Frank sees himself flushing lightly and looks down to where Gerard's hands are slowly unbuttoning his jacket.

"Yeah?" Frank bites his lip and grins.

"Totally." Gerard's hand is warm on Frank's belly, and his breath is warm against Frank's ear. It makes him shiver. He seriously wants out of the jacket, but maybe –

He yanks at the tie and loosens it enough to throw it over his head, then unbuttons the first two buttons of the shirt. There, he can breathe now, and he looks less like a dick in a suit. When he looks back up, Gerard's reflected face is focused directly on him. Their eyes meet and Gerard's gaze slides deliberately down. There it meets with his thumb at the hollow of Frank's throat. When Frank swallows, he feels the pressure of skin on skin, and he tries to breathe deeply through his nose. There's not even an inch of space between them. Frank pushes back and Gerard's other hand tightens around his middle.

"Hmmm," Gerard hums in Frank's ear and buries his nose in the crook of Frank's neck. Frank is practically panting.

It takes them both a few moments of willing it, but they break apart and it's not until Gerard is leading them outside the hotel and to the nearest cab stand that Frank realizes just how nervous Gerard really is. A part of him is slightly gleeful, though he has no idea why, and another part wants to open the cab door and vomit all over the ground in sympathy.

Gerard jitters next to him all the way to the gallery.

*

When they finally get there, it's like entering a madhouse. A madhouse that smells like turpentine and the glue Frank's first grade teacher Mister Morse used on papier-mâché.

All Frank can see of the place at first glance is that the walls are white and there's art _everywhere_. They immediately get swept up in a crowd of greeters – does Gerard have a _fan base_ , what the hell? – and Frank rolls with it, letting Gerard take the wheel.

Gerard is pale, but beaming, shaking everybody's hand, slouching as always, but somehow totally in his element. Frank watches him for clues on what to do or say, but there's not much input coming in. So he just shakes the others' hands and lets Gerard introduce him as "Frank Iero, from back home." Some give him appraising looks, some looks just slide right past.

It's about five minutes into the mayhem that they get their first breather. Gerard grabs Frank's hand and quickly leads him to a dim, quiet corner. Their palms are sweating together and Frank sniggers until they're both safely tucked away. He kind of wishes he'd grabbed one of those champagne glasses for himself, and then he bets that Gerard wishes it more, and squashes the thought.

"You okay?"

Gerard exhales and gives a few quick nods that don't actually translate into ‘yes.' "Yeah. I think? I mean, it's, like, crazy. This shit is insane, right?"

"Totally nuts," Frank agrees. "Dude, you famous here, or what?"

Gerard honks out a laugh. "No, that's just, like, all the people from Grenoble? I think. I mean, I know most of them. Like. Half, at least? I don't know, Jesus, am I sweating?"

Frank doesn't say "you're blending with the natives" when it comes to mind, but he does lean up really quick and peck Gerard on the lips. "You're awesome. Okay? Go and, I don't know, chat with your people."

He kind of panics as soon as it's out of his mouth, because what the hell is he doing, basically telling Gerard to abandon him, but then again, Frank's not ten. He'll be fine. It's Gerard that's freaking out.

Gerard bugs his eyes out at him anyway and his lips turn up at one corner. "You sure?" He looks halfway gone already, though.

"Hell _yes._ " Frank rolls his eyes for emphasis. His collar is prickling, and so are his pits, and he shifts until the feeling passes. Why the fuck is _he_ nervous, anyway? He's not the Belle of the Ball here.

Gerard squeezes his hands hard and quick, and gives Frank a distracted nod, looking like he's maybe forgotten Frank is even there. He's gone the next second and Frank readjusts his collar, takes a deep breath. Time to check out Gerard's art. As soon as he remembers that end of the deal, he feels suddenly giddy and his stomach gives a slight whoop. Give him all the dick he can take.

*

The paintings are spread out widely across the white walls, interspersed with installations and some mobiles, hanging from the high ceilings and catching the lights. Frank can't make out what they're of, exactly, from where he's standing, but he's going to find out as soon as he looks at the paintings.

It doesn't hit him until he starts looking, just how _much_ art there is. The place isn't huge, but it's _filled_ , and all of it obviously Gerard's, every last piece. He has no idea how he knows, but he does, and he admits to himself that he's a bit stunned. How long has Gerard been in this country, again? Jesus.

Frank stares at the first painting in front of him. It's black and white, though painted in oils, and the effect is weird and cool, like an old photograph or something that isn't quite realized, maybe. It's just a silhouette of someone from behind – a naked guy, of course, black and sleek-looking – and there's no background, nothing at all. But it's – more than that. Frank doesn't know technique names and he's not, like, an art scholar or anything, but he does know some shit.

This intrigues him. He squints at the nameplate, but all it says is "I." All right, then.

He moves on.

The next three paintings are the same guy – all in motion. They're titled "II" and "III" and other creative things like that, and then he stops again. A negative image of a face watches him, and it takes a few moments of getting over the weirdness of dark, disturbing teeth to realize that that's Gerard's face staring back at him. The upturned nose, the wide-set eyes. The long eyelashes are white and make the face seem old, which is so odd on Gerard's baby-faced features. His mouth is open and he isn't _screaming_ , but he's – Frank can't look away for a long time. This one is called "A."

"V" is next, and it's a close-up shot of the same dude's dick. Frank barely stops himself from cracking up. It's pretty fucking detailed, for what it is, and it isn't black and white anymore, but full-on color. The hips and legs attached to the dick are dark and cut and it kind of makes Frank think of superheroes, unclothed.

"Huh." He turns his head to study it a little more, feeling daring and like a kid, too, a bit. It's not like he's the only one looking at this, and his mom isn't just around the corner, ready to pull him away from things he shouldn't be looking at, at his age. It still makes him squirm and blush, just looking at some model's dick like that. He forces himself to stay there longer than he wants to, just because. And he does enjoy the view, sharing Gerard's case of loving dick and all.

"VI" is, he guesses, the same guy's sleeping face, resting on a bed of thorns. Dramatic and crazy, but beautiful – Frank studies the dark chocolate skin, the way it folds around the resting mouth and curves over high cheekbones. Who is that guy? Gerard, apparently, felt pretty inspired by him, whoever he is – the rendering is incredibly detailed and thoughtful. Frank doesn't exactly feel jealous, but he turns away and moves onto an installation.

He remembers Gerard telling him about working with wood and metal, but this is, like. Wow, okay. Frank tilts his head back to take it in. It's a huge sculpture or whatever of a man. Probably the same man as the paintings, in fact, judging by the sleek bald head, but it's all folded metal and spiky woodwork. It's completely insane, and Frank fucking loves it. He wishes he'd grabbed his camera, but he actually chickened out at the last minute, not wanting to look like an idiot, and left it at the hotel. It's kind of a shame.

He makes his way further along the wall through the milling crowds, watching as paintings grow bigger and bigger in scope. He's glad that he can't understand most of what's being said around him, because it gives him a chance to try to figure these out on his own. There's something increasingly violent about the paintings he's passing, though he wouldn't even be able to pinpoint what, exactly, if his life depended on it. Wouldn't, until he turns and sees the piece hanging in the very center of the gallery.

His jaw actually, like, hurts from the speed with which it drops.

The piece is huge, basically the size of the wall – how did he not _notice_ it until now? It's the same guy from every other painting, bald, black, and beautiful, but this time, he's _screaming_. His chest and arms are nestled inside the painting, painted in oil, but then his neck and his shoulders and his head are literally _bursting out of the canvas._ Thick and uneven leather straps are trapping his shoulders, nailed in at each side and corner of the painting, straining against his body. The head and neck are like – like Mister Morse's fucking papier-mâché, except ten times more real and scary and – seriously, it's the freakiest, coolest thing Frank has ever _seen_.

He steps back and bumps into people but barely even notices, because holy _shit_. Gerard must be – wow. A lot crazier than Frank had imagined. No wonder Mikey thinks his art is weird. But Frank has never seen anything more awesome in his _life._

He only realizes his throat is dry when he goes to swallow and comes up coughing.

"You okay?"

Gerard's voice is low in his ear, but it makes Frank jump about a foot in the air, anyway.

" _Jesus!_ "

He twists around and Gerard's face – real, not a freaky negative after-image – is right next to his own, and beaming. Frank feels his heart hammer down to a quiet pulse after a moment and shakes his head. "Were you stalking me, or just in the neighborhood?"

Gerard presses a hand to the small of Frank's back and leans closer in. "I was watching you looking."

Frank shivers from Gerard's warm breath and the by-now familiar gesture, and backs off just enough to be able to look Gerard in the eye. His jacket feels like it weighs a million pounds right now. "Was that interesting, creeper?"

Gerard laughs and steps back. "Duh. You were watching my work. I fucking love it."

"I had a feeling, maybe," Frank teases. Gerard's not a subtle guy. He clearly loves what he does, and he's damn good at it, apparently, and he probably knows it.

"So, what do you think?" Gerard asks and Frank only notices now that Gerard's got a fucking cigarette in his hand.

He dumbly watches the smoke curl up for a second before coming blurting out, "Uh, is that a fire hazard?"

"What, the painting?" Gerard frowns. "I don't think so, I mean, there's, like, several feet between –"

"No, the fucking – smoking, are you smoking at your own gallery opening?"

"Oh!" Gerard looks at the smoke in his hand like it's the first time he's ever seen anything like it in the world. "Shit, I – wow, I was really fucking nervous, and I had it in my pocket, didn't even – Uh. Oops?" He smiles in that loser-ish, sweet way he's got, the kind Frank didn't realize he had a hard-on for, but totally does. He cracks up and watches Gerard swivel around, cigarette clutched between two fingers, clearly looking for a place to put the thing out. Frank gets there first, finding a half-empty water glass and not even bothering to take the cigarette out of Gerard's sweaty fingers before grabbing Gerard's hand and dunking it into the glass.

They both watch the cigarette fizzle out for a second, then Gerard slowly takes his hand back and wipes it on his jeans. "Holy shit. I, like, didn't even realize I was doing that."

Frank is still kind of giggling. "I can't believe you didn't get _busted._ They must really fucking love you, huh?"

That comes out different than he'd intended, but maybe he'd intended it like that all along. Gerard's face lights up with his smile. "Yeah, you think?"

Frank thinks maybe he'll never stop laughing around Gerard. Dude is a fucking rollercoaster ride. "Uh, _duh_? Are you in the same madhouse as I am?"

Gerard's smile really is sweet, and maybe sweetly pleased, too. He looks like the Cheshire Cat right now, and Frank gets a warm feeling in his tummy, and feels kind of like a girl, maybe. He's trying to think of something to say that won't come sounding too much like "shit, I really fucking _like_ you," when somebody behind them calls out, "Monsieur Way?"

Frank chokes on his tongue and claps a hand over his mouth. _Monsieur Way_ , what the _fuck_. He's totally calling Gerard that in bed as soon as he gets the chance.

Gerard, meanwhile, swivels around and Frank sees him wipe his hand on the seat of his pants before extending it. "Oui?"

The guy introduces himself in French and Frank misses his name. With his grey beard and endless legs, he cuts a pretty impressive figure, and Frank doesn't even realize he's staring until he's staring right into the dude's blue eyes.

"Oh!" Gerard turns to Frank and gives him a wobbly-looking smile before turning back to his fan or whatever. "Lui, c'est Frank Iero," he says. Frank hears his own name just fine and takes that as his cue to shake the guy's hand. It feels like he's introducing himself to his own grandpa, for some reason.

"Nice to meet you," he says, just to avoid any confusion about languages, hoping it actually works. He kind of wishes he hadn't chosen Spanish in school.

"I am David Pinon," the guys answers, and Frank kind of exhales and drops his hand. He doesn't mean to do it so quick, but he somehow hadn't anticipated he'd be talking to strangers. He has no idea why, all he imagined was a bunch of art and Gerard. That was pretty stupid, in retrospect.

In the meantime, _Monsieur Pinon_ turns back to Gerard, but this time, he speaks strictly in English. Frank wonders if it's for his own benefit, or Gerard's. Gerard is twitchy as hell next to him, regardless of the language, and he keeps scratching his nose or hands, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

"This is… _very_ impressive, Monsieur Way," Pinon says, waving his hand in the direction of the walls. "I had seen some of your work before, that, ah – that showing in New York a few years back, at the Stein Gallery?"

"Oh!" Gerard's eyes kind of light up and he stills for a second. Frank tries to figure who this guy _is_. A critic, maybe? Otherwise, why would Gerard be fidgeting so hard? "I – had no idea you were there."

"Well, I was in town. At the Whitney dedication, I believe, and word had, how would you say – spread? Of your, uh, talents."

Frank tries really, really hard not to look in Gerard's direction, but he has a feeling that if Gerard's boots weren't so heavy, he'd be floating right up off the floor.

"Of course," Pinon continues, "that was nothing compared to the, hmm, breadth of your own gallery opening, correct? This is quite spectacular, Monsieur Way."

"Uh, thank you, and wow, yeah. Not – not at all," Gerard stammers, and Frank almost feels bad for him. But he can't imagine that Gerard won't find his footing soon. "I mean, I've had such amazing support here – I couldn't have done it without the GFA and the grant."

"And, _j'imagine_ , your muse, no?"

Frank's ears perk up just as the guy cuts his gaze at Frank and then, seamlessly, towards the opposite end of the gallery. Frank can't help but follow his gaze, and – oh. Oh _shit._

No fucking _way._

The guy whose face and body and _dick_ are all over the walls of the gallery is standing, flesh and blood and sharp, dark suit, a few yards away, chatting in a crowd of people.

It feels like slow-mo – Frank sees him, turns to Gerard, and sees Gerard's face flit through several emotions all at once – recognition, surprise, and something else that Frank fails to place, and then Gerard bites his lip and turns back to Pinon. He doesn't even look at Frank.

"Uh, yeah. My muse," he says, and laughs kind of awkwardly.

Pinon's eyes crinkle at the corners, like he not only knows the game, but also fucking invented the _rules_ , and he's all artless jocularity as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a rectangular piece of paper. "A muse is an artist's bread and butter, as they say." And here Frank thought it was metaphors. "Well, it was very nice to meet you, Monsieur Way. This is my card. Please do not hesitate to let me know of any future showings, I am _most_ impressed."

Frank can see Gerard's hand shake a bit as he reaches out to grab the card. He's smiling like his face might break when he's snatched for another handshake, and then Pinon is gone in the crowd. Frank tries to catch Gerard's eye, and when he does, Gerard's smile turns kind of wobbly.

"Important dude?" Frank asks after a beat.

"Oh _yeah,_ " Gerard says, stretching the last syllable into a thousand years, and jitters in place. Frank grins and gives him a dorky thumbs-up, despite the growing unease somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

"That's good, right? He was practically licking your ass, he loved you so much."

Gerard giggles, covering his mouth with Pinon's fluttering card. Frank feels an overwhelming urge to grab his hand away and kiss him, and barely stops himself. "Frankie, _oh my God,_ " Gerard mumbles. "Right? Like. Wow, what the hell?"

"You're, like, so articulate," Frank giggles and reaches up to grab Gerard's hand, anyway. "Good thing you're an artist, not a poet."

Gerard looks genuinely _wounded_ for a moment, and Frank feels like a shit. But before he has a chance to take it back or make it better, even though, Christ, he was just _teasing_ , he's got no fucking clue if Gerard is also, like, a poet on the side or whatever, somebody clears their throat and Frank whips around.

Well, shit. It's Mr. Muse himself. Nice timing.

"Gerard?"

Frank never wants to hear Gerard's voice spoken like that ever again, all rolling R's and French Sex God voice. He nearly breaks his neck trying to look the dude in the eye, because _hello_ , he is seven thousand feet tall. He is a black, beautiful, seven thousand foot tall drink of water, and he's looking at Gerard in a way that makes Frank's throat go a little dry.

"Paul!"

Oh. _Oh._ Frank can feel his eyes bugging out of his head in a really stupid way, but he can't stop any of it: Paul. The model is _Paul_. As in _Paul_ , Gerard's _ex._ He of the crazy and torrid sex, who helped Gerard get over his other ex. Frank's brain helpfully supplies the thread with which to connect the paintings and Gerard's love life. Artist's bread and butter, indeed.

Frank stands there, feeling vaguely mute and dumb and swimming just out of his depth, as Paul leans down and embraces Gerard, with that extra tight squeeze at the end, and Gerard – Gerard kind of sinks into him, and when they break apart, it's all big smiles and Paul's incredibly white teeth. They're ridiculously striking together.

"C'est formidable, ça!" Paul says, and Frank grits his teeth.

"Merci, je suis content que ça t'a plu," Gerard answers, and okay, seriously, somebody better start speaking a language Frank understands, even if it's goddamn Spanish. Frank knows that's pretty irrational, and this is Gerard's big day – of _course_ Paul would be here, and how would he know to speak English, anyway. Frank's mostly annoyed at himself for not having even considered the possibility.

Paul finally notices him – or, rather, grants him his attention. Frank isn't convinced this is better, because the look he's getting is akin to Zeus peering down from Mount Olympus, only less impressed.

"Et ça c'est—ton frère?" he asks Gerard.

"Oh!" Gerard says and turns his megawatt smile on Frank, which Frank feels pathetically grateful for, and then simply pathetic. "Non, n'est pas – this is my, uh, Frank."

Paul's eyebrow twitches. Frank is also unsure how to process this introduction, but he extends his hand like a good boy and shakes Paul's dry hand.

"Nice to meet you."

"Enchanté."

Asshole. Frank's about to snatch his hand away when Paul squeezes his fingers and turns Frank's hand palm-down. For a truly bizarre moment, Frank thinks Paul's about to kiss his hand.

"Oh la la, fascinating tattoo! _Hallo._ Is that a - different spelling or simply a different word?"

Frank looks down, feeling like he's seeing his own hand for the first time, then it hits him and he laughs like the nervous idiot that he is, extending his other hand for inspection.

" _Ween_ … Oh!" Paul exclaims, and it's definitely less inquisitive now. "You are a – children's holiday fan?"

Frank bristles and finally shakes his hand free. "Well, I was –"

"Frank was born on Halloween, isn't that fucking cool?" Gerard interrupts, and Frank honestly can't remember telling Gerard that at any point in time. He can't help grinning at him, but Gerard's watching Paul and bouncing on his toes.

"Yeah, that's my – my birthday." Frank's an awkward idiot. Also, he fucking _loves_ Halloween, and this asshole wouldn't know fun if it bit him on his perfectly sculpted ass, apparently.

"Oh, well, then! Oui, oui, indeed. You appear to be a, hmm, fan of tattoos," Paul says, and Frank can't actually tell which one of them he means, but he's definitely addressing Gerard's dick and not his face. Frank's stomach gives a warning flip, which is totally irrational, but all he wants is to get Gerard away from this dude and go look at his art some more.

"I love tattoos," Gerard enthuses beside him, and Frank is clearly grasping at straws, because that makes his freaking hands tingle. "I hate needles, though, so I just admire them from afar."

 _Or up close_ , Frank thinks, and tingles a little more at the memories.

"Well, I knew about your needle problems, of course," Paul laughs, and what? _Frank_ didn't know about Gerard's ‘needle problems,' he just thought Gerard didn't _want_ tattoos, or whatever. He stands back as Gerard switches languages to say something else.

Which leaves Frank standing there, watching the tableau like the awkwardest third wheel in the world. Paul and Gerard are chatting like buds, and Frank can't understand a single word out of anybody's mouth. The smell of papier-mâché in the air makes him feel out of time and place, like he should be back in Jersey, though maybe not in grade school. Why the fuck is he still standing here?

He waits to see if Gerard will remember him long enough to slip back into English, then slinks away to look at the wall he hasn't covered yet. It turns out, though, he can't actually look at the paintings right now, so he walks around a bit aimlessly before realizing that what he's truly craving is a smoke, some fresh air, and maybe a bit of quiet.

*

When he sneaks outside, the breeze hits him like a tidal wave. He breathes in and out for a long time, then fumbles for the crumpled pack in his jacket and lights up. He chokes on the second inhale, which is ridiculous, and has a stern word with himself about just _chilling the fuck out_. What the fuck is his problem? Gerard exchanging friendly words with his ex – so? It wasn't Paul Gerard was fucking through the bed last night, or kissing on the middle of the street, or… There's no good reason why Frank should be this on edge.

Of course, it isn't Frank's face and Frank's body and Frank's fucking _soul_ on display in there, and it isn't with Frank that Gerard's got all this _history._ Frank has been in Gerard's life for about the same fraction of time as humanity's been fucking up the Earth. Enough to leave an impression, but not enough to remember the dinosaurs, either.

"Fuck." He's jittering in place, even the smoke isn't cutting it. He needs to get a grip on himself. He feels a bit like a dog chasing its own tail, loopy and confused and pretty fucking frustrated.

He's fine. Everything is fine. He's in a city where he can't even find his own way out of a paper bag, and he knows only one person out of millions, but it's fine, he's _fine._

He takes out his cell by inertia and scrolls through a couple new emails from Toro as he ashes on the ground, and there's one from Mikey, too, that he hovers over, but doesn't actually click on. Then he fires off a quick text to his mom saying _hi, miss you_ , and feels a bit pathetic when she doesn't respond right away. She's always leaving her cell phone behind, not like it's unusual.

He stretched out his shoulders before slinking back into the gallery. Did someone crank up the heat? It's a fucking sauna in there, and he hates his suit a _lot_ at that moment.

*

He loses the jacket somewhere between "VI" and "VII." At first he drapes it over his shoulder, then feels like a fucking GQ model and bunches it up in his hand. Which makes his hand itch and cramp, so he finally ditches it in some corner somewhere, giving himself a perfunctory reminder to grab it before leaving.

One problem down. Second problem: finding Gerard.

Good luck, in this madhouse. It feels like the people have multiplied when he wasn't looking; he's being jostled on all sides, and fuck, he can't even _see_ over most of their heads. There's still that trilling speech all around him, chirping and vibrating and it's all beautiful, but ridiculously foreign, and he isn't an idiot, but he feels like one, anyway, because he can't even ask a single question without showing himself up for the tourist that he is. Where the fuck is Gerard?

He finally spots Paul's stupid shiny head in the opposite corner, and makes a beeline for him, not knowing whether he's hoping Gerard is with him or not.

He's not. Paul is chatting to some chick in, like, triple-decker heels that make Frank's ankles whine even looking at her, but Gerard is nowhere to be found. Frank turns back around before Paul can spot him, and then it's like the seas parting. Two guys shake hands, then break apart, and there's Gerard, his back to Frank, talking to a tall chick who's giving him a bright happy smile.

Frank's feet feel rooted to the floor. There's a patch of stubble under his chin that he missed shaving this morning, and he worries it as he watches Gerard's back with the weirdest feeling settling in his gut. It's like déjà vu in reverse. For one moment, he feels like he's never even _met_ Gerard before in his life, like he would have no idea what he would say to him if he were to start a conversation. The change of it makes his breath stop short and his lungs burn. He blinks, breathing deeply, and the feeling's gone, but he's left unsettled and weirded out. As though in that moment, he got lost himself, as well. In that moment, he couldn't even figure out why he's in this city to begin with. Didn't he know just a few hours ago?

He spots a tray with fresh drinks and nearly picks up one of the champagne flutes. One sip for courage, two sips for pleasure? He hates the stuff, but he'd even take that. It's not like he'll be kissing Gerard in while they're still here, but. His hand hovers over it, then he snatches it back. Then he curses at himself for being dumb, picks it up, sets it down, and finally just takes the goddamn water glass and walks away.

Jesus, he's become a lunatic. What a weird fucking night. He needs to get a pretty serious grip on himself, there's nothing actually wrong. Right?

*

"Hey, stranger."

Frank startles. Gerard is standing next to him again, staring at the same spot on the wall that Frank is. It's "B." Gerard's face, in negative; this time, it's sleeping. Or, at least, his eyes are closed. It makes him look like one of those x-rays of victims they show on CSI, which is a horrible, creepy image. Frank zoned out on it a while ago, and now he probably looks like a weirdo, staring at Gerard's face like that.

"Hey," he says. He clears his throat and answers Gerard's quirked eyebrow with a grin that's probably more like a grimace.

"You all right?" Gerard asks, tilting his head a bit, and Frank snaps out of his trance and when he smiles again, it doesn't feel as forced.

"Sure, yeah, I just got…you know."

"What?"

"I don't know." He squirms a little and attempts to grow a pair, even as the tight knot in his stomach eases up a bit. "You're, you know, all busy and stuff. I just didn't wanna be in the way." Which is at least halfway true. He wonders if Gerard will bring up Paul, and he doesn't know which one he's hoping for.

"You disappeared for a while there," Gerard says, looking down and watching his own tapping foot. "I thought maybe -"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, never mind." Gerard sucks in a deep breath and gestures wildly around them. "So, what do you think?"

Frank doesn't get it at first – think? Think of what? His own train of thought seems to be riding a whole other highway, but then it catches up and he realizes that he never actually got to tell Gerard what he thought of his art. They've been here for what feels like hours, and now Gerard's watching him kind of expectantly from under his eyelashes. Frank relaxes and answers honestly.

"I think you're fucking amazing."

Gerard's face splits into that sun-eclipsing smile, the kind that you could never resist, unless you were, like, a slug or an ant or something else that had no appreciation for beautiful fucking people. "Yeah?"

Frank hears himself giggle in that dumb way, but he can't help it. Gerard has to know Frank thinks that, doesn't he? Gerard, for all that Frank maybe doesn't know him all that well, seems to have a pretty fucking healthy ego. It should really be off-putting, but Frank doesn't even mind it. That may be a problem.

"Duh," he says now, "have you heard everyone tonight? Even that critic or whoever he was. You've got them eating out of your hand, Gerard, I'd say that's a success."

Gerard blushes, but looks so pleased, he's bordering on smug. "I fucking know, right? Apparently, I've sold a piece to a modern art museum in Amsterdam, can you believe that shit?"

Frank's eyes bulge. "Holy crap, are you serious? That's, like - that's big time, isn't it?"

Gerard just gives him a _duh_ look, which Frank accepts, because - _duh._

"Oh!" Gerard's eyes widen and he starts patting his own ass. "I have to tell my mom! And Mikey, he made me promise – shit, where's my –"

Frank reaches into his own back pocket to fish out his cell. "Here, use this – I think Mikey's, like, the last person I called on there, or maybe second." Ray was last, right? It's weird not being able to remember, for some reason.

Gerard gives him another smile, but this one's more unreadable, or maybe just a bit complicated. Either way, his fingers are warm when they exchange the phone, and Frank jitters in place as Gerard dials. "Thanks, Frankie," he breathes before the lines connects. "Mikey, it's me. Dude, guess what –"

Frank scratches an itch on his neck. He doesn't know if it's okay that he's here while Gerard talks to Mikey, and it's that awkward moment where he doesn't want to interrupt, because Gerard might misinterpret it, so he just slinks away slowly until he's found a bench to sit on, and takes a breath.

So, Gerard is, apparently, big-time. It isn't exactly intimidating – Frank's got a pretty sweet thing going for him back home, and he wouldn't trade it for anything – but it seems strange, maybe irrelevant, that he be here. Shouldn't it be Mikey, or Gerard's parents? He sits and people-watches for a while, letting his bouncing knee do the worrying for him.

The girl in the triple-decker heels is standing in front of the dick painting, watching it like it's the freaking _Mona Lisa_ , which is pretty hilarious. She's got a friend with her, and that one is openly giggling. Frank wants to muster up some kind of snobbish response in his own brain, but who is he kidding – it's a picture of a dude's dick. He's lucky _he_ didn't giggle his way through it.

"May I join you?"

Frank would know that deep, smooth voice in his grave, probably. Paul doesn't wait for Frank to acknowledge him, just sits right down and watches the girls for a while. If Frank didn't dislike him so much on the ex principle alone, he'd totally ask if it's weird having your junk out on display like that. But he does, so he just grits his teeth, instead.

They sit in an awkward silence for a while, and Frank goes through a million things he could say right at that moment that would make him feel like _he's_ the tall gorgeous dude who's got nothing to fear but fear itself. He watches Paul out of the corner of his eye. Paul seems like the most comfortable guy on the planet, and he's fucking rocking his suit.

"So, you are a friend of Gerard's?" Paul asks in a too-casual voice.

Frank, who is not a pussy, turns to look him in the eye when he answers. "Yeah. I am." It sounds kind of weak, like trying to repel a swarm of bees with a bb gun.

"Hmm." Paul gives him an aloof stare. "He never mentioned you. Frank, you say?"

Frank grits his teeth. "Yes." He mentioned _you_ , he thinks, and his stomach churns in a way that feels like a warning, but he isn't sure if the warning is to himself or not. He's got no idea where this is going.

"He talks very much," Paul says breezily, "and he's talked about his brother, but…"

Frank doesn't know what this dude expects him to say. Does he want a fucking history lesson? Frank doesn't owe him a thing, so he tries to keep himself chill. "Well, I'm a friend."

Who's doing Gerard. Why does that feel like a threat? It's a dumb threat, anyway – Paul's the dude who did Gerard for a _while_ , and helped him get this far.

Paul is quiet after that, seeming to finally accept Frank as fact, leaning back to rest with one hand on the bench. He was clearly born to model – he looks like he's posing for a cover shoot right now, relaxed and dignified, and Frank is intensely aware of his own sweaty pits and itchy knees and how much rather he'd be anywhere but sitting next to him.

Then Paul says, casually, like he's talking about the weather, "He is a Frenchman at heart, I believe, he belongs here. Do you agree?"

Frank's heart does a flying leap into this throat, because _fuck that shit_. Gerard is a freaking weirdo, Frank _knows_ that, but he's from Jersey, and he'll come _back_ to Jersey, once he's done –

What did Mikey say? "Prancing with his natives?" _His people._

Frank swallows around the bile building up in his throat and doesn't answer.

 _Fuck_. Maybe he's had it wrong all along. Maybe this is all just a good fucking time, but Gerard's probably got no intention of going back at all, and it hits Frank in a moment of total clarity that he's got no reason to.

Gerard's a fucking _success_ over here. He's got a grant, and he's probably got enough money to stay on without it. He's sold a goddamn painting to a goddamn European _museum_ , he doesn't _need_ Jersey. He's doing just fine here. He's –

He's standing right in front of them, casting quick, uncertain glances between Frank and Paul, and Frank suddenly wishes that he could click his heels and wind up home, on his couch, with his dog and his life.

"The man of the hour!" Paul trills in an easy voice.

Gerard smiles uncertainly between them, then nods. "I think I'm done here, if you're ready, Frank?"

Frank feels like he's just woken up. When he looks around, the crowd is a mere tenth of what it was, and the whole place has got that feel of a party that should have broken up an hour ago, but didn't because a few assholes were still having fun. Frank sure isn't, though, so he unbuckles his knees and gets up quickly. Fuck, he's so tense, he could spit.

"Totally," he says instead and set out in search of his jacket. "I'll meet you back by the door, okay?" he throws over his shoulder, but when he looks back, Paul's got Gerard in a pretty tight hug. Frank turns back around and legs it across the room.

*

They both light up smokes as soon as they're out on the street, but Frank isn't sure if it's because Gerard is relieved, uncomfortable, or just craving a smoke. He pretends not to watch Gerard for clues and scuffs his feet on the dry pavement. He wishes it was still wet from the storm, because Paris should always be glistening at night – or at least, that's what movies have taught him. When he looks up, about to maybe start a conversation, Gerard is all the way up the street, flagging down a cab.

So much for the smoke.

They sit in twitchy silence in the cab. The windows are rolled down, and the fresh air feels pretty sweet where it hits him in the face and makes everything down to his hair shiver. Gerard is on the other side of the bench, though, his fingers drumming some rhythm on his knee. He feels a thousand miles away, and Frank swallows around his dry throat and closes his eyes. He knows he should maybe say something, pretend like everything is fine, but he can't make his throat open up enough to do it.

He can feel it when Gerard turns his head towards him, but can't actually bring himself to meet his eye for some reason. He has no idea if he's crazy, no idea what Gerard is thinking.

"Frank?"

"Mmm?" Frank bites his lip and finally turns enough that he can flash Gerard a dumb smile. Everything's fine here, he's not busy chasing his own tail and ruining the night in the process, how are you?

Gerard gives him an uncertain smile back, but frowns when he says carefully, "Just - uh, you okay? You're kind of quiet."

Frank feels an overwhelming urge to just lay it out and have it be done with, but they're in a fucking cab, rolling up the meter, and even though the cabbie probably doesn't understand them, Frank still doesn't need a fucking witness to his crap. He shrugs, nodding, and turns away again. He's got some Euro tucked away in the inner pocket of his jacket, and he doesn't know how close they are to the hotel, but he reaches for the bills, anyway.

Gerard falls silent beside him, like he's got nothing else to say, or maybe Frank just missed his chance.

Fuck. Frank kind of wants to crawl out of his skin. He'd expected some weirdness at some point, maybe, but he hadn't expected to – he hadn't expected this, whatever the fuck it is that's suddenly got him by the throat. He hadn't expected it, because he'd been so sure that they were doing a smart thing here, but who in their right mind goes flying halfway across the world to spend a week with a stranger?

But Gerard hadn't felt like a stranger, not since the moment Frank spotted him smoking like a dweeb at Mikey's wedding. He hadn't felt like a stranger at all, not until Frank ran right up against his life, so distant and different from Frank's, so fucking far away, and so _unknown_.

When the cab pulls up to the hotel, Frank thrusts some bills at the cabbie, ignoring Gerard's extended hand, and scrambles outside. He's pretty sure he didn't owe twenty Euro, but whatever, it's done.

Gerard is a few steps behind him, and Frank wishes he'd waited for him, now, but it's too late to slow down without more awkwardness, so he allows his legs to lead. He passes the foyer with its winding staircase and the horsehair couches. He thinks, three days ago seems like a million years ago, and doesn't look that way again.

Down the hallway, with Gerard's quiet shuffling behind him, Frank pushes the elevator button a bunch of times and fidgets in place as it groans to life. Gerard has picked up on Frank's mood, so he stays back, and when Frank catches his reflection in the elevator's mirrored doors, Gerard looks almost forbidding, closed so tight, you couldn't pry him open with a crow bar. Something clenches in Frank's chest.

The ding of the elevator is the only sound he hears until the room door slams behind them and Gerard throws the key on the dresser and it clatters to a silence. Frank follows Gerard's progress across the room and out onto the balcony. The doors don't quite slam behind him.

Frank curses and goes into the bathroom, where he can mercifully lock the door and not see any of their stuff strewn about the room where they'd left it all those hours ago. He doesn't turn on the light because he doesn't want to catch his own reflection in the mirror, and pisses in the dark.

Afterwards, he pushes the door open slowly, and it's a relief that the room is still dark and Gerard isn't in it. But now that Frank's here, he's got no idea what he's supposed to do. He lowers himself onto the bed with his shoes still on, carefully keeping to the side he's been sleeping on, and turns to look out the window.

He can barely see Gerard in the dark, but he can make out the roofs of the buildings around them, and his insides clench. It reminds him of how the fucking bird hopped from roof to roof, of how he was warm and naked and touching Gerard everywhere, just three short days ago. Now, this whole entire trip suddenly feels like the biggest, most spectacularly stupid idea he's ever had.

He twists around and punches the pillows into shape, wishing he could make himself go out there and _explain._ It's like he can barely follow the thread that's led him here, that's led them both to a place where Gerard is smoking out on the balcony and Frank is left trying to puzzle out just what in the fucking fuck had happened. Are they in a fight? Who's leading it? He has no idea where to even start.

"Frank."

Frank startles and turns around. Gerard is silhouetted against the open balcony door, his hands clutching both doors. Frank swallows. Gerard probably wants that explanation, and Frank takes a deep breath and rolls over enough to get up. There's got to be some pride left in here, somewhere.

"Gerard," he says as he takes two steps forward. That puts him practically nose to nose with Gerard, and he can see the red spot standing out on Gerard's cheek again, just a darker smudge in the darkness, and his eyes are wide and beautiful and kind of freaked out.

Frank searches for the best way to start, but his brain is way ahead of him. "What _is_ this?" Not the best way to start, admittedly, but it's done, so he plows on. "What are we _doing_?"

"I don't know!" Gerard exclaims, and the force of it startles Frank back. Gerard runs a hand through his hair and it stays after he drops his hand. "I have no idea what the fuck _happened_ back there, Frank, what the _hell_?"

Frank's heart stammers so hard, he could probably hear it, if Gerard wasn't yelling. But the question stands, and Frank would probably have demanded the same goddamn thing, if the roles were reversed, but he's on fight-or-flight now, and he can't stop himself.

"I," he starts, then stops, breathing. "I don't know, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing here, Gerard, okay? What the fuck am I doing?"

The question is more for himself than Gerard, but Gerard's eyes grow huge and tragic, and he reels back until he's fully on the balcony, while and they're staring at each other across the threshold like they've never fucking _seen each other's sex faces,_ like they've never even _met._ It's too ridiculous. It's like a translation's been lost, or some important piece of a puzzle.

"I - is it me? What the fuck did I do?" Gerard shakes out a cigarette from his pack and his hands fumble with the lighter. "Why are you all – weird, what _happened_?"

Frank wants a smoke so bad, he can taste it, and he knows he needs to answer, but he can't, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs, looking away.

"You just – you _left_!" Gerard exclaims on the exhale. "I turned around, and you were _gone_ , and you acted so _weird_ around me after that, fine one minute, and the next… And I barely saw you, and, like, did – was it my art? What the fuck was it, Frankie, what did I _do_?"

And Frank's thoughts spin to a halt and he looks at Gerard and realizes, _he doesn't know._

Of _course_ he doesn't know, how the fuck _could_ he. Right now, it feels like Frank barely fucking knows himself.

He laughs, because this is the weirdest, most ridiculous fight he's had in years. "Jesus, it's not your _art_ , it's your –" _muse,_ he thinks, but that's a cop-out, he knows, so he says, "your _life_ , and you're - we barely even fucking know each other, all right? And I have no fucking idea about any of this, okay, I have no idea what you want, and your ex -" He breaks off because that's not the point. But his mouth is, apparently, on a roll, though, talking without his permission. "What am I even _doing_ here? Why am I here?"

He didn't mean to say the last thing out loud, but now it's out there and the answer is kind of painfully obvious. Gerard's mouth is half-open and his cigarette is smoking without him, clasped loose in his fingers. "Frankie –"

"What." Jesus, his heart is pounding so hard, he thinks any minute now, his ribs will crack with the force of it, and he'll leak all over his bones and under his skin, turn all black and blue all over, and then Gerard could paint him like that, because it would look _awesome._ He could call it "XXI."

"Frankie," Gerard says, quieter, and it feels like everything's gone quiet and still, even Frank's blood.

He looks up when Gerard calls his name again. "What, Gerard."

"I – wait, what do you mean, my ex?"

Gerard's eyebrows furrow and for one long moment Frank thinks he got it all _wrong._ It was probably a totally different Paul altogether, and this one really was just a model, and Frank ruined their night, ruined _Gerard's_ night over something that wasn't even true -

"Isn't Paul your – I mean… Isn't he? That ex, the model?"

" _Oh_. Oh my God, are you serious?" Gerard sounds surprised, which is so fucking stupid, Frank kind of wants to smack him, just a little bit. "Frankie, he's – oh my _God_ , he's – he's in the past. I didn't even – _Jesus._ "

Frank hates how he's hanging on Gerard's every word, so that when he stops talking, Frank thinks he'll trip over the silence.

"You didn't _what_?" Frank's skin feels like it's burning from needing to know, he feels himself straining forward, like a cartoon character following its nose. "You didn't see the way he looked at you? Or how he basically said you're never coming back home?"

But that's not really true, is it, or fair in any way, and Frank is an asshole, he realizes this now, because none of this is Gerard's fault. Gerard isn't the one who traveled thousands of miles just to see some other guy's fucking gallery opening and fucked it all up in an hour because he couldn't find his feet in time. He wants time to stop for just a goddamn second, so he can make sense of his own head and stop letting his words escape without thinking. "You just – I don't – this isn't -"

Gerard reaches out with his empty hand and for a brief second, Frank thinks he's going to slap him and freezes from the shock. But Gerard reels Frank in by his collar and kisses him, instead, hard and bruising; it's uncomfortable to the point of pain, Frank's lips are mashed up again Gerard's teeth and it _hurts_ , and his breath actually stops in his throat for a long, muddled moment.

Then he frees himself and blindly reaches out until Gerard's jacket is crumpled between his hands, and Gerard's mouth is open and hot over his and they're _kissing_ , deep and slick and smoky. Frank's head swims from the craving and he thinks he maybe moans, but maybe that's Gerard. Jesus, it's such a relief to be close again, Frank shivers all over.

When they break apart, Gerard pants into his mouth but doesn't step back. They're silent for a while, and Frank can feel Gerard's crazy pulse through his clothes. It matches his own.

"Frankie, I." Gerard's whispering, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Frank's ears aren't ringing. "I have no idea what we're doing here, either, okay? I just – I don't want to fuck it up."

Relief floods through Frank's entire being and his voice is shaky when he answers, "Neither do I." He almost _did._

"Okay," Gerard breathes out. "I just. Is that why you disappeared? You thought I was – oh, man, was that – oh, _man_."

Frank shakes him a bit, because he's still got Gerard's jacket fisted in his hands and he knows he was stupid, he doesn't need reminders. "Don't fucking – ugh. I'm sorry." They won't get anywhere at this rate, but he wants to make some things clear. Clearer. "I went out for a smoke because I felt like…I was in the way. And I was –" _Just say it_. "Jealous." Among other things. "And it fucked me up. I'm sorry I ruined your night, I'm a total dick."

He can't make himself look Gerard in the eye yet, so he looks at Gerard's throat, that dip at the base of the neck that's covered in light sweat and smells like lived-in skin.

"Frankie, don't. You didn't," Gerard almost whispers.

Frank just says ‘ha' under his breath.

"I have no idea what this is, okay?" Gerard continues quietly. "But it feels... I'm just ... scared, I guess."

That can't be a good thing, Frank thinks, except for maybe the fact that they're both feeling it. He wonders if it's for the same reason. "Of what?"

Gerard sighs, but he stays where he is and doesn't fight Frank's hold. Which is good, because Frank's hands are frozen into fists, and there's nothing he can do about that right now. "Of how… huge it seems."

Yeah. It _is_ fucking huge. It has to be fucking huge, for Frank to have just gotten up and left his baby in the hands of Toro, his dog to his mom's crazy brood, and done this crazy thing.

"It's huge for me, too," he whispers. And he doesn't want to fuck it up, either. He closes his eyes and leans in until his lips are on Gerard's throat. He feels Gerard's stuttered gasp all across his skin.

*

"I've only been in love once. I think."

"Oh, yeah?"

Gerard looks impish in the dark, but he's also got those huge sad eyes, and Frank just bites his lip and tries to listen patiently and not hurry it along. It's kind of killing him, though, he wants to _know._ Gerard's got one hand tucked under his cheek, the other is plucking at the sheets, and he keeps skittering his gaze between Frank, the window, and his fingers.

"Who was it?"

"You know that last real relationship before Paul?"

Frank nods. The waist of his pants is digging into his hips and he's too hot in his dress shirt, but Gerard had pulled him down onto the bed a few minutes ago, kissed him, then looked him in the eye and said, "I want to try something."

Then he started talking. Frank went with it, because all he could feel was the sheer relief of maybe not being the only crazy one in the room.

"Yeah, so… His name was Bert. Robert, but he was this weird guy, you know? So, he introduced himself as Bert." Gerard gives Frank an expectant look, and Frank just nods again. Gerard sighs and plays with the sheets some more. "I, uhm. I was pretty messed up when we met, and knowing Bert didn't really, uh, help. We'd start out at some bar his band was playing at, and then continue to _another_ bar, and then he'd get into some brawl eventually, and we'd get kicked out, so we'd, like, I don't even know, stumble to my place or some motel somewhere, and fuck and drink more and, like, do blow or whatever else he had stashed on him."

Frank's barely breathing. Gerard doesn't seem to question that Frank knows about his sobriety, but then again, it's obvious, right? Frank's got all these questions he wants to ask, but doesn't think he can yet. He shifts until he's more comfortable. "How long were you together?" That seems safe enough, at least.

Gerard huffs out a little hollow laugh. "Oh, fuck, I don't even – about a year, I guess, maybe less?"

Frank can't imagine being with the guy he's picturing in his head even for a month, but he's not Gerard, and he's not an addict. He's not sure he should be asking the next question, but this is headed there, isn't it? "So, what happened?"

Gerard gives another sigh, this one heavier, and palms his cheek in a distracted kind of way. "All kinds of shit, I guess. I mean… I thought he was – fucking crazy, obviously, but in that amazing kind of way? He was – you never knew what Bert was gonna do, and he _got_ me, from the start. We got each other."

Frank's heart is thudding hard and slow against his ribcage and he wonders whether he gets Gerard. He wonders if Gerard gets _him._

"Yeah?"

"Well. At the time, I guess. I didn't – I mean, we were _seriously_ messed up. And it wasn't until I got – I got clean that I realized that he didn't get _me_ , we got each other's fucking… crap. You know? We got each other's messes, not… not anything else."

Frank's always been a pretty healthy guy emotionally, all things considered, but he thinks he understands. His ex was no picnic in the park, but Frank fucking loved the cocksucker until the bitter end. "I can get that."

Gerard shrugs and his knee moves up until it bumps against Frank's. "Frankie, I'm… I was such a mess for so fucking long, you know? And I've been sober for twenty months, but I'm not. Like, I'm still scared of slipping. Every day, I'm terrified, you know? What if it's today, or next week, when it hurts more, that kind of stuff."

Frank doesn't know, but he _does_ , so he nods and presses his knee harder against Gerard's. "Were you – were you afraid tonight?"

"Fuck yeah. Did you fucking _see_ that shit? There was fucking champagne everywhere you looked."

Frank's gut twists. He'd never even noticed Gerard _looking_ at the drink trays. Of all the things he'd been wrong about tonight, this was probably beating out all the rest. Gerard gives off that air of such confidence and being above it all, and Frank is so naïve, he might as well be a kid, still. Jesus.

"Does it – get easier?"

Gerard purses his lips. "Yes and no. More no than yes, to be honest, but I don't give myself the…option, the choice, anymore. I just." He pauses. "I can't drink, period. That." He sighs. "That almost takes it out of my hands."

Frank wonders if Gerard thinks of a higher power, if he just doesn't realize that he's the driving force behind it all. Gerard grips the edge of the pillowcase under his cheek and says, "I still remember the feeling of it, the _experience_ of getting drunk. You know?" Frank nods. "And I still _want_ the feeling, because I know it'll, like, whitewash everything, you know? And I want that so much sometimes, it's…" He breaks off and chews his lip. "Mikey got me through the worst of it," he says and it's unexpected, maybe, but it makes sense.

"Yeah?"

Frank only met Mikey a year ago, after Gerard had already moved. How weird that, even a month ago, Gerard was just an abstract guy who had no part in Frank's life at all. He was barely a person.

"I did AA, too, while I was back home," Gerard offers.

"Not here?" Do they even have AA in France?

Gerard hums. "I tried at first, but I didn't know the language well enough. And then, I don't know, I stopped… Not needing it, obviously, but the edge had worn off or something. I really threw myself into my work, I guess."

 _And how,_ Frank thinks, but it's a weird jumble of jealousy and pride, so he doesn't say it out loud. It must still show on his face, though, because Gerard is suddenly all motion, and Frank barely gets a chance to blink before Gerard is _on him_ , hands cupping Frank's face, hot breath fanning over Frank's lips.

"Frankie, you just – I don't know how to explain this. This is – it scares the shit out of me, okay?"

Frank can barely get his breath back, but at some point his hands wrapped themselves around Gerard's waist and he's holding onto him so tight, his knuckles are probably turning white. His pulse is thudding in his ears and he feels like he's been flipped upside down and then given a shake, for good measure. "Why?"

Gerard's fingers skitter down Frank's jaw, shaking. "Because I've never – I've never done this sober, okay?"

Frank swallows and tightens his hold. "What about –"

"Paul doesn't _count_ , okay, he was… We _fucked_. We fucked a lot and we spent time together and it helped, but it wasn't, like. It wasn't like Bert, it wasn't like before."

Frank doesn't want this to be like before, either. Gerard's face is close and his breath is warm and sour from the cigarettes, and Frank is sweating everywhere they touch. It's too much, everything is kind of hazy, but he doesn't want to let go, either, so he takes a deep breath. "But, I mean… What about – all those paintings, all that…"

Gerard relaxes on top of him, which deadens the weight and Frank finally nudges him off and to the side, but keeps his hands on Gerard, letting him know he's here. Gerard stays close, and he seems to be sweating more than Frank. The room is stifled with their breathing.

"He was, I don't know," Gerard answers quietly. "He _was_ important, but not in that way? All those paintings… They're not Paul, they're _me_. Does that make sense?"

Frank blinks. It's so fucking obvious, he can't even process it for a second.

"He was fun, and a smart, interesting guy, you know," Gerard continues, and he's a bit breathless now, talking too fast and jumbled, "and I forgot, when I was with him. Not really, but it made it easier, and…" Gerard squeezes his eyes shut and chews on his lip some more. His hand is tangled up in his own hair and Frank thinks that Gerard's maybe forgotten it's there at all. He reaches up and gently takes it out of the tangles. He feels a sick sort of pity, but not a pity for anyone in particular. His chest clenches up and he has no idea what to do or what to say, so he goes with his gut and leans in until their noses are touching.

"It's okay," he says right before he kisses Gerard, and he doesn't even know what's okay, or if it really _is_ okay, but Gerard responds with a desperate kind of noise and pushes back, pushes until Frank is on his back and Gerard is over him, hands pinning Frank's wrists over their heads, his knee between Frank's legs.

"Frankie," he pants when they break off, and Frank just tries to catch his breath, because his brain can't process the change as fast as his dick can. He goes from zero to hard so fast, his head spins.

"What?"

Gerard watches him with dark eyes, his mouth open. A beam of light cuts through the room, across the walls, across the ceiling, across Gerard's flushed face, then the car passes and it's dark again. "I don't fucking know," Gerard says, and then laughs at himself. "I've got no fucking idea."

Frank does. He has an idea that maybe they're all talked out for now – at least he knows he is. He also has an idea about the fact that his clothes feel like a fucking sweaty prison by this point. The air around them reeks of sweat and musty sheets, and he takes the lead on this one, rolling Gerard over, pinning him down, stripping him of clothes bit by sticky bit.

He blows Gerard on the sheets they've been messing up for days, sheets replaced by maids, then messed up by them again and again. He blows him fast and deep and messy, losing himself in the down-and-dirty rhythm of it, letting Gerard's dick stretch out his lips until they hurt, and his jaw until it aches, and his throat until he nearly chokes. There's so much spit and pre-come, he thinks he could fuck himself on it if he wanted to, but that's not what he wants.

Gerard thrashes under him, groans in broken words that might be Frank's own name, and twists Frank's hair until Frank thinks he'll pull it right the fuck out, and relishes the pain. Gerard comes fast and hard and hot, and Frank can't even get his breath back after letting go. Gerard slams him into the bed, rips off his pants, tugs down his briefs and finger-fucks him – rough and barely prepped. He doesn't even touch his dick.

Frank wants to shout but his breath gets caught, and his eyes sting from all the sweat, he can barely make out the blur of the ceiling. He doesn't realize he's grabbed Gerard's wrist until his fingers go numb, and even then, he doesn't pull away, just follows the shift and slide of Gerard's bone and sinew until it feels like he's fucking himself on both their hands, rutting like he can't stop, even though it's just this side of the pleasure-pain divide. When he can barely take it anymore, he grabs his dick and jerks himself fast and tight.

"Jesus, your face –" he hears Gerard say through the rushing in his ears, and Frank thinks he snorts in response, and that's how he ends up coming, his cock pulsing in his hand, his ass trembling around Gerard's fingers. He's still panting when Gerard runs a slow hand through his come and licks it off, meeting Frank's gaze.

Frank sinks his head back into the pillows and his chest doesn't feel big enough to fit all of the breath and heart and blood he's got inside.

*

Frank doesn't remember dozing off, but now that he's awake, he realizes he's been dreaming. It's still dark out, and he's damp and sticky under the sheets. It takes him a quick hair-raising moment to realize that Gerard's not in bed with him. Frank's body is up and awake before he's even fully processed the light streaming under the bathroom door.

 _Oh._ Okay.

He slumps back down, but the adrenaline has forced him awake enough that he won't fall back asleep for a while. He hears the toilet flush, then a quick run of the faucet, and when the door swings open, the bathroom's already dark and Gerard is a quiet creeping shadow until he thumps down on the bed and reaches out to touch him. Frank yelps from shock. "Holy crap, your hands are freezing!"

"Mmm," Gerard agrees and snuggles closer, not taking his icy hands off of Frank's waist. "And you're _warm_ ," he mumbles.

"Fucker," Frank grumbles back and shoves Gerard's hands away from his person and under a pillow. Gerard makes a complaining noise, but stays where he is. Frank can see his crazy hair outlined in the dark. They both reek of night breath and stale sex, and Frank surprises even himself when he snuggles deeper into the scent and closer to Gerard.

This time when Gerard wraps a hand around him, he doesn't push him away.

"Tell me about you," Gerard whispers against Frank's neck, and Frank laughs quietly.

"What about me?"

"I don't know, something. I spilled my fucking guts, now it's your turn. Here, come here." Gerard maneuvers them until Frank's face is fully buried against his chest, and Gerard's wrapped both arms around him. Their legs get tangled with the sheets, but Frank doesn't mind. He's busy thinking about his own skeletons.

"I don't have that much to spill," he admits after a while.

Gerard makes a disbelieving noise. "Like hell you don't. Spill it, fucker."

Frank giggles, then closes his eyes. "All right. What do you want to know?"

"Your ex."

"John?"

"Is he the Modigliani ex?"

Frank laughs and wishes he could think of him that way. "Yeah, that's the one. So, what?"

"What did he do?" Gerard asks, and it's quiet, like he maybe already knows.

Frank rubs his itchy nose on Gerard's chest. "Hmm." He's not entirely sure he wants to be having this conversation, but it seems like a pretty fair trade-off. "Fucked me over. Broke my heart." He feels so far away from it now, and he never really thought he'd be able to say it so casually.

"How?"

Frank shrugs and grins, "I don't know, the usual way, I guess? Cheated on me, lied about it for months."

"What did _you_ do?"

Frank sighs, because even from far away, apparently, he can still feel that particular brand of humiliation. "Stayed with him for a while after I found out, pretended like it wasn't happening." He rolls away from Gerard, his skin too hot where they're touching.

"That sucks," Gerard says, hand still touching Frank's hip, lightly. He doesn't sound pitying, just sad.

"Yeah, well, afterwards, I dropped him from the label, so I guess we're even," he tells the ceiling and wonders if Gerard will call him on it. He always wondered just how bad that decision had been, but Toro certainly seemed encouraging at the time, and he's a pretty good compass for that kind of shit.

Gerard breaks into giggles and Frank rolls over until he can look at him, unable to stop his own grin. "That's awesome," Gerard manages through the laughter.

"Yeah?" Frank snorts. "He didn't agree."

"He was an idiot," Gerard says and pulls Frank in.

*

Frank pushes Gerard's legs back until he gets what he wants and he takes his time licking him, light and soft until Gerard whines and tries to fight his hold. Frank doesn't let him. He keeps at it, licking, nudging his balls with nose, practically nuzzling Gerard's ass, fucking relishing it. He thinks about Gerard's paintings, thinks about how if he could, he'd paint fucking odes to dick, too. To dick and balls and ass, because Jesus Christ, he can't fucking get enough of it, has to get closer, deeper, _more_ , until his fingers are inside Gerard, feeling the soft ridges, stretching him out, lost in Gerard's voice breaking, everything tightening up, wet and hard and dark and fucking close; until Gerard is coming down his throat and Frank is losing his shit, rubbing himself mindlessly against the sheets, whimpering around Gerard's dick.

*

"So, who _is_ the best sex you've ever had?"

Gerard just watches him, confused at first, then scrunches up his eyes and buries his face in the pillow. His hair is a wreck. "Ugh, fuck off."

"Oh, come on," Frank giggles and pokes him in the side. "C'mon, who was it?" He kind of doesn't want to hear the answer, but he's blissed out and stupid, and doesn't think he'll actually mind. Much.

"Ugh, shut the fuck up. You're –"

"What? Curious? Persistent?" _The best?_

"Really fucking obnoxious. And, I don't know." Gerard's still mumbling into the pillow, so Frank pushes at his shoulder until he's on his back, then pins him down with his chin on Gerard's chest. Gerard is laughing at him, creating some awesome double and triple chins for himself from that angle, but when he lifts his hand, it's to brush some sticky strands off of Frank's forehead. "Memorable. You're the most memorable."

Frank grins and rubs his nose on Gerard's chest. "Memorable. All right, I'll take it."

*

"Frankie," Gerard whispers against Frank's skin, then bites down so hard, Frank almost kicks him off and groans. "You don't," Gerard continues after he licks the spot and slides down further until he's breathing against the base of Frank's dick, _Jesus._ "You don't mind that I call you Frankie, right?"

Frank's laugh kind of gets lost on its way out, but Gerard doesn't seem to be listening, anyway.

Frank falls asleep after that, not even waiting for Gerard to turn him over. He doesn't really dream.

*

Frank wakes up in the vicinity of morning. It's hazy grey beyond the window, but it's the kind of hazy grey that turns into a bright and hot summer day once the sun comes up. It isn't until after he's registered the light that he notices Gerard is awake, face turned away, one hand playing with his phone in a sort of mindless gesture that means he's been doing it a while.

Frank watches him for a few long moments, wondering if Gerard will notice he's awake, then gives up the wait and nudges Gerard's bare shoulder with his nose. "Morning," he croaks.

Gerard turns to face him abruptly and gives him a vague smile. "Frankie, hey. Sorry, did that wake you up, too?"

"Did what wake me up?" Frank stretches his arm out wide and yawns while his back cracks.

Gerard bites his lip and wordlessly extends his phone at Frank. Frank frowns, some kind of anxiety settling in, and looks at the screen. Then he blinks and looks back up at Gerard's face. "So, wait. Really?"

Gerard's tiny smile turns into a full-wattage grin, like it had only been contained by the quiet. "Yeah. I can't believe they didn't tell me last night. The motherfucking _Whitney_ , Frank. I sold a piece to the _Whitney._ "

Frank sits up until he can see all of Gerard, beaming with crazy bed-head. "So, what does that mean? I mean, like. For you." He gives a half-hearted attempt at not thinking about what it might mean for him, but man is selfish, and so is Frank, and his heart beats extra fast in the quiet.

"Well, I – I don't know, but I've been thinking." Gerard scoots back against the pillows and fidgets with the duvet under his hands. "I've been here a while, and I really – I mean, I thought. I don't know, but after this, maybe –"

Frank's heartbeat is hollow, like a drum, maybe, or a full fucking drum circle. "Yeah?"

"I think this is probably a good sign that I should come home."

Frank has never had a poker face, but he tries to hide his expression, anyway. He ducks his head and twists his fingers together until they ache, and when he looks back up, Gerard gives him a look, but Frank can't tell what it means yet. His brain is half sleep-muddled, half going into over-drive.

Gerard will have a piece in the Whitney, and Gerard might be coming home. But.

"That's. That's really awesome," Frank manages, trying to sound just the right mix of encouraging and not entirely invested. Of course, it's hard to feel un-invested in the life of the guy you'd all but spilled your guts to just a few short hours ago. A guy whose dick you've sucked, a guy you've let fuck you six different ways from Sunday. Frank is not invested in a great many things, but Gerard is definitely not one of them. Not anymore.

Gerard tips his head back into the pillows and grins at Frank, smile spreading lazily up. "Yeah?"

Frank gives up even trying to pretend. Instead, he lets the whoop of his stomach lead him, just like always, and he moves until he's got Gerard trapped between his arms, leaning over him, chests almost touching, knees and thighs and hips bumping and grinding. From this close up, he can see the birthmark high on Gerard's left pec, the sparse hairs around his nipples, the uneven patches of stubble over his cheeks. Gerard's face is creased with pillow marks, one cutting right through his forehead, like a faded scar.

Before he can even process the movement, Frank tastes Gerard's morning breath on his lips and even with that, the kiss is soft and sweet and he fuzzily thinks that maybe morning kisses are better than any other kind.

When he leans back, Gerard's eyes open slowly, until they're watching each other in the waiting silence.

"If you come home, does that mean we can stop crossing oceans to get laid?"

Gerard giggles and runs a hand through Frank's hair, raising every single goose bump Frank's body has to offer. "I hope so."

"Good," Frank whispers and shivers again. They can figure out the rest as they go along.

For now, he lets himself be pulled down onto warm skin and into sticky sheets and given some awesome morning nookie. Much like morning kisses, it's better than anything else in the world.

~fin~


End file.
